


Lost Girl

by prussianblues



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Background Relationships, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, R plus L equals J, Sexual Tension, aegon is real, he's the son of rhaegar and elia, not a blackfyre, when you start shipping something as a joke but then it takes over your life, who is alayne? discuss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussianblues/pseuds/prussianblues
Summary: She leaves the Seven Kingdoms a bastard and returns a queen.Or, Joanna Snow is in King’s Landing when Cersei seizes the city, and Varys sneaks her out to meet her brother. A meddling Magister later, she meets Daenerys as well.A story told in drabbles.





	1. i. lost

Lord Stark does not mean to give her a choice.

“Catelyn…” he starts, looking pained, as if Joanna does not know the reason why already, as if he actually thinks Joanna wants to stay in Winterfell with Lady Stark once he leaves. “Catelyn refuses to allow you to stay, but the South is no place for Starks, Joanna. You’re old enough to get married. I promise you I’ll find you a good match.”

“A good match.” What does that mean for a bastard girl? Joanna had known this was coming, of course, but the _knowing_ does not make her uncertain future any less frightening.

Joanna’s lips stay sealed, but something in her expression must prompt her lord father to say, “It’ll be the heir to a wealthy merchant family, most likely. Sometimes they marry into impoverished nobility, and with your blood, perhaps your children might make such a match.”

“And there’s more wealth in the South,” Joanna says.

Lord Stark hesitates. “Yes, but White Harbor—”

“I’d like to go South,” Joanna tells him. She decided days ago. When she sees Lord Stark preparing himself to deny her, she strikes before he is able to. “In King’s Landing, you’ll be the Hand of the King, not just the Warden of the North, Father. _Please._ I’ll make a better match there.” This is true, of course, but Joanna has no intention of actually marrying in the South.

What is the South if not more of the North, more of Lady Stark looking at her like she is unclean, more of lordlings and ladies getting her name and going, _oh, you’re the bastard?_ For all that Tyrion Lannister had never been to the Free Cities, he had known much of them, and he had told her that birth does not mean half as much over there as it does here in the Seven Kingdoms.

Lord Stark does not need to know Joanna’s plans, though.

* * *

“We have a wolf,” the queen says, so quiet Joanna almost does not hear her. “We have two.”

Nymeria has gone missing, but Ghost and Lady remain. Joanna knows that if they pick only one to kill, which one it will be, but she stands frozen when the King says, “As you will, have Ser Ilyn see to it.”

“Robert, you cannot mean this!”

But the King does, no matter how much Father protests and Sansa begs. They mean to have both Ghost and Lady killed.

“Your Grace,” Joanna says as she steps into the King’s path. She does not have to fake the tears in her eyes or the way her voice trembles. “Please, please, I—” Here, there is a choice: to beg for both direwolves or not. She thinks of all the times Sansa has called Joanna her half-sister—never her _sister,_ her actual sister—and the choice is not a choice at all. It is a certainty. One of the direwolves must die, but Joanna has suffered the King’s stares in silence. She deserves to keep Ghost, at least. _The gods must give this to me._ “I wasn’t there, Your Grace, and Ghost never makes a sound. He’s so well-behaved, you couldn’t find a nicer pet, and—please, Your Grace, Father always says that you are kind and just. I wasn’t there…” She steps closer to him, and somehow the knights of the Kingsguard let her. The King’s eyes are a deep blue, and they are wide and bright with _something_ when he looks down at her begging.

“You’re right, girl.”

* * *

Lord Stark appoints two guards for her at all times. He says it is because bastards are not safe in King’s Landing, but Joanna knows that is a lie. The truth is that girls who look like Lyanna Stark are not safe _anywhere,_ and Joanna is older than Arya. Five-and-ten with the flower of youth, she is the right age for the King to fuck and the Queen to murder.

Joanna does not push back against the protection—only a fool would. She goes out into the city and meets the sons of rich merchants with her two guards, two lumbering men who are quiet and deadly. The merchants are properly impressed, and she even likes some of the men. Every time she feels herself wanting to settle, though, Joanna forces herself to think of feeling small when Lady Stark swept through Winterfell’s halls; of Sansa calling her a bastard to her face after Lord Stark killed Lady.

 _No,_ Joanna decides, and the ice around her heart burns.

* * *

Somehow, Arya convinces Lord Stark of letting her learn water dancing, the Braavosi style of fighting.

“It’s because he feels bad about Mycah,” her sister tells Joanna. “Do you want to learn too?” Arya turns hopeful eyes on her.

“I can’t.” She continues before Arya protests, “It’s not that Father wouldn’t let me. If he allowed it for you, I’m sure he’d do the same for me, but I’m hoping to get married. Most men won’t want a wife who can fight.” To say nothing of a wife who is a bastard.

Arya stomps her foot. “I don’t want you to get married!”

Joanna smiles at her. “I think you’re the first person to tell me that to my face, Arya.” Of course, most people mean it maliciously, not out of concern for Joanna like Arya does. “I _want_ to get married, though. It’ll make me happy.” _Or more secure, anyway._

Arya huffs. “If you say so.”

As the days pass, Joanna continues her search for a suitor. She takes to running errands for Lord Stark, insisting that she must make herself useful, and then admitting that the Red Keep feels stifling when he does not believe her newfound work ethic. In reality, Joanna makes it a point to step into the city to run errands because it puts her in contact with a variety of people, most of whom are in contact themselves with the very suitors she is after. While the men Lord Stark has introduced to her have been appropriate, Joanna has bigger ambitions.

Joanna meets goldsmiths, seamstresses, armorers, singers, merchants great and small, traders who deal in grain or even luxury items like Tyroshi dye. Slowly, she breaks into the shadowed world of the commons, the upjumped masses of King’s Landing that the highborn so despise. Cynthia, an apprentice seamstress with an eye for intrigue and the daughter of a prosperous alehouse owner, informs her of the sailors’ gossip, and it proves to be a good way to learn of the men’s characters, since most of them do not have established reputations in King’s Landing. This is especially true of the ones merely passing through, which are the ones Joanna is most interested in.

Lord Stark catches on to her scheming quick enough.

“Do you really want to live across the sea, away from your siblings and I?” he asks her one night after Sansa, Arya and Septa Mordane have all retired.

“I don’t, Father. I didn’t plan on this at all, but I like them best. They don’t care that I’m a bastard and I…” Joanna does not have to say anymore. Lord Stark looks away from her, guilty. “Pentos and Tyrosh are closer to King’s Landing than Winterfell. Braavos is closer to White Harbor than King’s Landing as well. I wouldn’t be that far… and I want to see the world.”

That settles the matter. Father has always found it difficult to deny Joanna what she asks him for, a fact that neither Lady Stark nor Sansa have ever forgiven her for, so she takes care not to ask for much.

The next day, Arya is busy chasing after cats yet again. Her hands are full of scratches. “I have one left!” she says excitedly. “It’s this old tomcat with a torn ear. He’s fast and mean like nothing else, Joanna.”

“Come on. I’ll help.”

Arya gasps. “You can’t do that. I’m training!”

Joanna tilts her head. “Then I’ll watch.” They roam about the keep for a good two hours before they find the cat hissing at a kitchenmaid that has crumpled to the floor. Arya flings herself at the cat while Joanna focuses on helping up the girl, who is crying. “Here,” she says, handing the girl a golden dragon. The girl looks shocked. “To pay back what you spilled,” Joanna explains. “Tell them Arya Stark ran into you and they won’t punish you.”

The kitchenmaid nods and rushes off.

Something rubs up against Joanna’s ankle, making her jump, but it is only the cat. He stares up at her with his black eyes. “Meow.”

“Oh, you’re not mean,” Joanna decides, and picks him up.

Arya trails after her with wide eyes, an expression which seems to be contagious, as everyone who they come across starts adopting it. At one point, they meet a round, bald man in violet silks. He looks from Joanna to the tomcat, then back again, his eyes wide as saucers.

“My lady,” he says. “Is that a torn ear?”

Joanna looks down at the cat cradled in her arms. “Yes, the poor thing.”

When the man attempts to come closer, the cat hisses, fierce as a dragon. “Oh,” he says, then laughs nervously. “That’s… that’s most… Yes, yes, have a wonderful day…” He waves them away.

“What a strange man,” Joanna mutters to herself, but she pushes such thoughts away for the time being. When she and Arya arrive at the Tower of the Hand, she shows the tomcat to Father. Unfortunately, he hisses and tries to scratch. In fact, it bites Arya and tries to jump at Sansa, who flees back to her room. “Please, Father, I’ll teach him to behave. I’ve done so well with Ghost! Please!”

Lord Stark gives her a dubious look, but he gives in eventually.

“He needs a name,” Arya says after the two of them have washed the cat and trimmed his fur. Well, Arya just watched, but she insisted her task was to supervise.

Joanna frowns. “That’s sad, that he’s so old but doesn’t have a name yet.”

Arya looks uncomfortable for a moment, but Ghost climbs onto Joanna’s bed and nuzzles Arya’s side. “Better late than never.”

“His name is Florian,” Joanna says firmly. “We can play Florian and Jonquil together.”

_A cat must be much more amenable than Robb, at least._

* * *

Lord Varys stuffs Ghost into a box, then gives Joanna boy’s clothes, a wig, and a bag.

Joanna looks at the wig. It is not Lannister gold, for obviously that would draw too much attention, but it reminds her of the Queen all the same, of that vile, wretched woman who had no doubt asked her son to kill her father. She blinks away her tears, suddenly enraged, and pushes the offending thing back into Varys’ hands. “I’ll cut off my hair. It’ll be less of a hassle.”

“No, no.” He looks alarmed. “Not that beautiful hair of yours. Wear the wig, my lady.”

Joanna opens her mouth, ready to protest, to tell him that she will not need her hair to look pretty where she is going, but she does not actually know _where_ she is going. “I will,” she says.

“You’re not to open that under any circumstances,” the man titters, pointing at the bag. “My associate will pick you up in Braavos and send you on your way. You’ll give the bag to the man with whom you’ll be staying.” _Staying for how long?_ Joanna wants to ask, but she keeps her mouth shut. “You’re a maid and you must _remain_ a maid. Do you understand?” His voice turns deeper, suddenly sharp. Lord Varys sounds like a different person.

“I do,” Joanna says. The Spider makes as if to turn, presumably to leave her in this cramped little cabin. Her heart slams into her chest, fear gripping her. _Varys is all I have; Varys is the last familiar face I’ll see in a long time_. Joanna had known the eunuch only by word of mouth before her father’s imprisonment, but when he saved her from the Queen’s men and hid her in the Red Keep’s bowels, he became almost a friend. For two moons, he had kept her alive, bringing her food and news of her family. Now here the two of them are: a bastard and a spider, on the cusp of parting, and she has so much to ask him before she leaves. She settles for the most crucial: “Why are you helping me, my lord?” She sounds like someone is strangling her. _Grief is strangling me,_ she thinks sardonically, mad at herself.

“Lord Eddard asked it of me, my lady.”

Joanna wants to break something. “He did?” _That vile whore,_ she thinks of Cersei, _that horrible woman. She deserves to die for all she’s done._ “And Arya? Sansa? Didn’t he ask—?”

There is a knock on the door.

Varys gives her a stern look. He completely ignores her questions, instead choosing to tell her, “Don’t touch the bag, don’t touch the hair, and _don’t_ let anyone else touch _you._ Understood?”

“Yes,” she says meekly, still thinking of her father.

* * *

Joanna tries to sleep at night, stuck on her cot inside her cramped cabin, Ghost curled up next to her. She does not dare go out onto the ship’s deck, for even disguised as a boy, there are men who will have young boys as well as girls.

“You’re a maid and you must remain a maid,” she mutters to herself, suspicious. Why is that so important? She is only a bastard, but then Joanna has no handsome knight to steal her away and make her stupid with lust. No, even then, Joanna would never give up her maidenhead so cheaply. She will not shame her father so.

 _Father is dead,_ she remembers. Funny how she so often forgets. _It’s because I want to forget,_ she realizes in a sudden moment of clarity. Soon after Varys had sent her off with a crew of sailors, she had realized that crying her days away left her disoriented and vulnerable. “Don’t let anyone else touch you,” she says, viciously trying to push aside all thoughts of Lord Stark, but they refuse to go away.

Joanna buries her face into Ghost’s fur.

The Queen’s men had taken taken her prisoner as she had been packing her things to leave the city. She had been furious at being ordered to travel back North when she had had a meeting with a Magister of Myr the very next day, a _very_ promising meeting, given that the man’s son had been not only handsome but taken with her.

Joanna had gone still like a cornered cat—like Florian—when the killing began, but then Varys had been there not even an hour later, sneaking her out of her rooms and into the bowels of the keep. The Spider had made her promises, so many promises. For the most part he had kept them, but not all had gone as planned. Varys had said he would free Lord Stark from the Black Cells and smuggle them both out, had said he’d find Arya for her, but the only one who had escaped King’s Landing, in the end, had been Joanna, the bastard.

 _Sleep,_ she tells herself. _Sleep, you fool, sleep, none of that matters now. Sleep._

Dead is dead.

Her father is dead.

Dead is dead.

_He’s dead, and I’m alone._

* * *

In Braavos, Joanna changes ships. A man as thin as a reed leads her to another ship, this time one that looks clean and reputable. He tells her someone will be waiting for her in Pentos. When she asks why she could not have gone to Pentos straight out, the man looks at her like she is an idiot and tells her, “So you’ll be harder to track, girl.”

“Ah.” And now she certainly feels like an idiot.

Joanna nods her goodbye and boards the ship. She finds herself thinking of the Wind Witch, the trading galley her lord father had contracted to take Sansa, Arya and Joanna back to Winterfell. She desperately wishes for news of Arya and Sansa—whether they are alive or dead, captured or free. _Is Robb waging war? He’s too young for it, my brother._

She wonders if he is looking for her, if he cares, if he misses her at all.

Joanna needs to believe he does.

* * *

Joanna hands Magister Illyrio the bag Varys gave her more than a moon ago, and when he opens one of the letters inside, he goes quiet for some time. When he raises his head, he looks at her like—well, not a piece of meat, exactly, but like something very, very tasty, for all that she looks like a short little boy. He has a group of maids strip her down, bathe and pamper her. They do her hair and dress her in an airy teal blue gown that fits her well enough.

Joanna has never worn anything so fine, but the Magister promises her better ones soon.

“Can… Can I have a cat? A little black cat?” she says suddenly, lonely. “I don’t want a rare one or anything that would cost you; just a cat. I’d pick up one from—”

“You already have one beast,” the Magister says distractedly. “I won’t tolerate another one.”

Joanna drops her eyes. “Are there any news of my family?” She asks next, uncomfortable with the way his eyes rove all over her figure. It reminds her of the way King Robert looked at her, but _worse._

“Robb Stark has been named King in the North and the Riverlands. Sansa Stark is the Lannisters’ captive and Arya Stark is dead, it appears. Renly Baratheon has been crowned the King in Highgarden.” Illyrio goes on, but Joanna is no longer listening to him.

“Arya? Dead?” she cries, all thoughts of Illyrio’s greedy eyes forgotten. Joanna had known it to be a possibility, for Arya to be dead but they are talking about _Arya,_ her wild little sister, so full of life and strength. No, it must be a mistake.

“I’m afraid so, dear girl.”

* * *

Illyrio gets her a septa. From where, Joanna does not know, but on the day she meets the portly woman, she quizzes Joanna on her knowledge on what feels like everything a lady should know, from embroidery to courtesies to running a household. On the latter, Maester Luwin had made sure Joanna would excel, but she has never received any formal instruction in the former and she knows little about courtesy as a lady would. Joanna, after all, is a bastard, and that is how she has interacted with lords and ladies all her life. She does not know how to simply be courteous; she is _subservient_ because that is what she has been taught to be all her life, regardless of how rebellious she had always wished she could be.

“What have you been doing with your time, then?” Septa Jenelle asks her, clearly thinking that Joanna has wasted her entire life. It makes her feel small.

“I’m very good at sums and geometry. I can read High Valyrian but can’t speak it fluently. I read very well and have a good knowledge of poetry, songs and the histories of the Seven Kingdoms. I can sew, weave and spin thread, and I’m very good at making bone lace—”

“Bone lace? Do you mean _pillow lace?”_

“That’s what it’s called in the North.”

“Pillow lace!” the septa screeches. “Ladies don’t make pillow lace. That’s for the smallfolk!”

Joanna looks down at her hands, suddenly ashamed. Lady Stark and Septa Mordane were never willing to teach her how to embroider like a proper Southron lady, and although Arya had tried to pass on what she was taught, she had never been good enough at it to explain it to Joanna, no matter how much she tried. All she knows, she knows because Old Nan taught her, frail and blind as she was.

“Not in the North,” she mutters under her breath. _Northern ladies make bone lace just like common girls._ Not that Lady Stark cared. “I’m sorry,” Joanna says. “I’m a quick learner. I can learn embroidery if you teach me.”

Septa Jenelle shakes her head and sets about teaching her how to sing and dance. She does not bother with needlework at all, saying that she is so far behind that her countenance is all they can fix in the time they have.

“The time we have? Time for what?” Joanna has a feeling she knows, and this is further confirmed when Illyrio presents her with a pleasure slave. “I’m not a whore,” Joanna hisses, near blind with rage.

“Of course not, but if in the future you’re to be married, then wouldn’t it be better to acquaint yourself with the womanly arts of love?”

“And who says I’m to be married?” Joanna thinks back on the way Varys had warned her to remain a maid, why the Spider had even bothered to save Joanna and not Sansa. “You think my siblings are going to die! You mean to use me to get the North!” Joanna wishes, perhaps for the very first time in her life, for Lady Catelyn to be here. The Magister sometimes reminds Joanna of Lord Stark’s wife, with his domineering looks and pretty words. While Lady Stark is tall and fair where the Magister is fat and ugly, they both look at Joanna like she is some lesser thing lucky to be alive, for all that Illyrio insists on dressing her in decadent luxury. _She’d tear you apart for daring to even think of my taking her children’s inheritance._

Illyrio does not seem bothered by Joanna’s outburst. He makes a gesture towards the pleasure slave he just presented Joanna with, and the girl leaves the room. “Your family will die, I’m sure,” he says, and Joanna sucks in a breath, pain flooding her chest. _How can he be so cruel to confirm that to my face?_ “But no, it’s not your claim to Winterfell I want. Rather, it’s your blood, your _father’s_ blood.”

Joanna blinks at him, thinking him dense. “Of course you want my father’s blood, I know, but Winterfell is Robb’s!”

Illyrio smiles at her. “I think it’s time to tell you the truth, then. We’ll be having guests soon… and you’ll need time to come to terms with everything.”

Joanna does not understand a thing he is saying, but she feels the first stirrings of distrust. _He knows something,_ she decides, _but whatever it is, I won’t be his pawn._

“Your mother,” Illyrio says, surprising her, “was Lyanna Stark.”

And Joanna’s world tips on its axis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this to pass the time. Since my other Aegon/fem!Jon story isn't doing so well right now, I hope this sort of makes up for the very long wait for an update to it. If anyone is interested in being a beta for it (or for this, I guess?), then please be sure to comment! I'd appreciate the help.
> 
> Please comment anyway if you have the time. Comments make my day.
> 
> Aegon shows up next chapter~


	2. ii. brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read chapter one before this was posted, you should go back and read it again. It's been significantly expanded on.

Everything is a lie.

Everything is a perverse mockery of her dreams.

Joanna is legitimate, but she is not her father’s daughter. Joanna’s parents were in love, but they caused a war by running away together. Joanna’s mother was not a whore, but she is also dead and gone, her body resting beneath the castle where Joanna grew up, and she had never known.

“A brother,” she says after Illyrio finishes regaling her with tales of her _daring brother, a fine lad,_ per Illyrio’s fond words. “I have a brother?”

“Yes, he’s making his way here even now. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to meet you.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure he will. His father only dishonored his mother to marry mine. He took a second wife. Who wouldn’t be delighted to meet their sister under such circumstances?”

Illyrio shrugs his massive shoulders, making all of his body jiggle. The easy way he dismisses Joanna’s words brings to mind Lady Stark. _I can’t escape her even now,_ Joanna thinks.

“Targaryens are curious creatures,” the Magister says. “A sister is a sister is a sister.”

Joanna goes cold. _Targaryens marry their sisters._ “No! I’m my own person, Magister, and I don’t want…” She does not finish her sentence. Living in all this luxury, she has almost forgotten who she is—a bastard, a stain, a pawn for other people to play with—but yes, Illyrio and Varys can do as they wish with her. It does not matter what she wants.

There is a hint of approval in Illyrio’s face when Joanna bows her head. Joanna looks at him from underneath her eyelashes, acting like an inoffensive little girl once more. _This is just like the North, just like King’s Landing. Only the game is more deadly now._

“His Grace would doubtless have appreciated a sister to marry under different circumstances, but never mind, you’re not to wed him. You have an aunt in the far east, and her blood is purer than yours. She’ll marry the King.”

Joanna can breathe a little easier now.

* * *

Aegon is not what Joanna expects.

His hair is dark blue. “My mother is supposed to be a lady from Tyrosh, that’s why I say I dye my hair,” he offers. It is the first thing out of his mouth.

 _Starting out with his mother,_ Joanna thinks ruefully. _This won’t end well._

“And why not hide in Lys?”

“Too obvious.” Aegon drums his fingers against the wooden arm of his chair. Joanna cannot help it; she looks at his hand for so long that he stops. When she glances up, his face is dusted with red. “Sorry.”

“It’s I who should apologize, Your Grace.” She stands up. He follows her to his feet, ever courteous. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Wait, I—” Aegon is fast. One second he is behind her, the next in front of her, blocking her path. Joanna blinks. He raises his hands and keeps them close by his sides, as if he does not wish to spook her by touching her. “Don’t you… don’t you want to talk more? You’re my _sister.”_

_The wrong sister._

“Perhaps later.”

* * *

Aegon mopes.

“What did you do?” Jon Connington—Aegon’s handler—asks her in a panic two days later. The man has, up until now, vacillated between ignoring her and treating her like a fragile crystal ornament. Yesterday night, he had taken her out to the coastline so she could sulk herself. He appears to be very good at predicting Joanna’s moods, which seems to say something about _Rhaegar Targaryen’s_ moods. “He never does this!”

“Nothing.” Which seems to be the problem. Apparently, Aegon expects her to bond with him like a real sister would. He has never had a family, and he expects her to have the same yearning and curiosity he does… but Joanna _has_ known brothers and sisters, unlike him. The fact that they are getting slaughtered across the Narrow Sea fills her with bitterness and anger, but she does not want to replace them, ever.

* * *

“Daenerys Targaryen has dragons,” Illyrio tells the room at large. It is only he, Aegon, Jon and Joanna, but it is such a grand announcement, she feels as if more people should be around to hear it.

Joanna is the first to speak. “The dragons are dead.”

“Not anymore,” the Magister says. “Your aunt hatched them from the stone eggs I gave her. How, no one knows, but it’s imperative that we bring them here, where they can be protected.”

Joanna shakes her head. Shock is giving away to skepticism.

To her left, Jon is gleefully muttering the word _dragons_ to himself, over and over, each time sounding more deranged. To her left, she finds Aegon beaming at her. He grabs her hand and squeezes. “We’re going to go home.”

Joanna wants to tell him he has never been to the Seven Kingdoms, that it cannot be home to him, but the way he looks at her stops her. His smile reminds her of Arya, the slight, pouty upward tilt to his lips bringing back memories of when Joanna and her sister would go to the winter town pretending to hunt for Joanna’s mother—a game Lady Stark despised.

Suddenly, it is a lot harder to look at Aegon as Robb’s second coming.

* * *

Aegon must observe her more than Joanna gives him credit for, or so she concludes when he presents her with a small, black kitten with brown spots. The day before she accompanied him into Pentos proper to escape Septa Jenelle’s clutches.

“I saw you staring at some cats,” he explains. “I got this one from a reputable—”

“Take it back,” Joanna snaps, furious. _I have a cat,_ Joanna decides. _He’s just far away right now, just like my siblings are far away._

Aegon looks confused. “But why?”

“Who told you I wanted a cat?” She crosses her arms.

He shrugs. “I thought it was obvious. Here.” He steps closer to her, holding out the kitty. It meows. For a second she wants to keep it, but then she remembers how irresponsible she had been with Florian, who had kept her company in the Red Keep’s cellars during those torturous two moons when Lord Stark was imprisoned. After her father’s execution, Joanna had been too upset to even realize she left him behind. _I hope he claws Cersei to death,_ she thinks.

“I have a cat,” Joanna tells Aegon. “I’ll get him back when we make our way to King’s Landing.”

Aegon tilts his head, but a small smile creeps into his face. “That’s sweet of you. Are you sure you don’t want her as well?”

“I don’t want to replace him.” Upon first arriving in Pentos, she had desperately wanted a cat, but now, presented with another one—especially a cute, young kitty; much prettier than her grumpy old cat—she does not want it at all. _The real Jonquil wouldn’t replace her Florian either._

“You wouldn’t be replacing him,” Aegon tries. “It’d make you feel better, I think.”

Joanna shakes her head. “No, it wouldn’t. I should have taken him with me when I left. Everything just… It happened too fast.”

Aegon sighs, but he takes his leave. She thinks this will be the end of it, but it is not. He brings her flowers every day, exotic flowers she has never heard of. She looks at him suspiciously for it, but he does not seem deterred by how cold she is to him. Joanna wonders if Illyrio’s spies have truly nothing better to do than spy on her in order to tell her brother how to gain her favor, but then she realizes that with how much time she spends in the gardens, he had likely not needed anyone to tell him she likes plants.

One day, he sets down a small, white flower pot on top of her vanity. The flower is tall and light pink, its petals falling in a way that make them look like the frills on Sansa’s favorite Southron gown, a gauzy thing Lady Stark had commissioned while Joanna looked on with want.

Joanna pushes such unkind thoughts away.

“My chambers are covered in flowers, Aegon.” _Thanks to you,_ she thinks about adding, but since she is secretly pleased and does not want him to know, she keeps quiet. “I don’t have any space left for this one at all.”

Aegon gives her a wicked smile, surprising Joanna. He takes her hand, pulling her closer to the pot, and squeezes open one of the blooms before easing his hold, letting it shut once more.

“Oh.” Despite herself, Joanna feels a smile tugging at her lips. “And what’s this one called?”

Aegon’s smile turns smug. “This,” he says, “is a snapdragon.” He squeezes the flower and lets it snap again. “Because it’s like a dragon, see? Its jaws, really.”

Joanna takes a bloom and tries it, the petals smooth to the touch. She attempts to keep the smile off her face. _Not as charmless as I thought, is he?_ “You’re hopeless,” she finally says.

Aegon leans his hip against the vanity table. “Who’d have thought a silly flower would be the thing that did it?”

Joanna tilts her head. “Did what?”

He considers her. “Made you smile.” Joanna immediately forces her lips into a pout—the best she can do when she wants to laugh. Aegon does it for her, chuckling as he catches her by the waist and draws her chose. _“You_ are hopeless.”

“I don’t see why I should encourage you.” _Or myself,_ Joanna thinks. Robb never did anything like this, was never interested in spending time with her or making her smile the way Aegon is. She likes the attention, likes _Aegon,_ but she is so afraid that one day he will wake up and tell Joanna that he hates her; that Rhaenys should be here instead of her. _Why would Aegon love me when Robb never did?_

Aegon shakes his head at her words, dismissing them with a nonchalance she envies. “You should smile more.”

“There’s not a lot to smile about,” she says, looking away. Joanna takes a second to imagine Sansa in King’s Landing, Arya dead in a ditch somewhere, and Robb fighting in the Riverlands, risking his life while Joanna herself spends her days lounging around in a great manse, surrounded by luxury and a brother that is trying to replace the boy she had grown up with. Guilt fills her.

Aegon lifts her chin. “Then I’ll give you something to smile about.”

Joanna snorts. “You will?” She does not believe him.

“Yes,” he says fiercely.

She shrugs her shoulders, breaking his hold by stepping away from him. “Don’t you have better things to do than bring me flowers?”

“No,” he tells her, even though it is clearly a lie. Aegon has a maester, a septa and a hedge knight after him almost every second of the day. Still, sometimes lies are sweet.

“If you say so.”

That night, Joanna finds a place for the little flower pot inside her rooms, next to a window so that it gets plenty of sunlight. She has to get rid of another pot to do so, to her immense regret, but she chooses a species that Illyrio has in his gardens so that she can visit.

* * *

Illyrio, understandably, does not like Ghost loping around his manse, since he is a very big wolf who will not hesitate to tear out anyone’s throat if Joanna commands him to. Joanna is allowed to let him out for a couple of hours every day as long as they remain in the courtyard, but it is never enough. As soon as Aegon starts coming with her to play with Ghost, though, Illyrio relaxes and lets them spend more time together.

Joanna has been unable to gleam much about the Magister, but she knows that the man had lost a wife and a child to the grey plague years ago. From the way he dotes on Aegon—and his son’s death—she imagines that Illyrio sees him as his surrogate son and that is why he is so lax with him. She finds that sad. _What would Lady Stark do if all her children die?_ Joanna is afraid she will find out one day.

Joanna reaps the benefits of the Magister’s affection for her brother, running in the courtyard alongside Aegon, throwing a small ball at him just as Ghost pounces and tackles her to the floor. “Run!” she says, but Aegon is already gone and Ghost as well, both of them far faster than Joanna herself.

She picks herself up off the warm tiles, dusting off her breeches and straightening her braid. It does not take a long time for Ghost to paw his way over to her, emerging from behind a statue to set the ball at her feet. He sits, almost prim—for a second, she thinks of Sansa’s Lady, but she needs to push that thought away, for it is too painful. _I’m sorry._

Aegon shoots Ghost a dark look when he comes to stand next to her. “He’s a menace.”

“I’m sure you’ll be thankful when he fights next to you in a battle.” It must be next to him because no one will let her pick up a sword, and even if they do, she has spent six-and-ten years without a single day of training. She is too old to learn well enough for battle now.

Aegon turns to her. “He should be with you, to protect you in case anything goes wrong.”

“In case you die,” Joanna says, her voice flat. She does not want to think of Aegon dead.

Ghost bumps his head against the back of Aegon’s knees, pushing him into Joanna, who grabs his shoulders. He ends up with his hands on her hips. She gives Ghost a sharp look, but Aegon hardly seems to mind. Joanna realizes why when she feels his thumbs brushing against the bare skin of her hips, underneath her doublet.

“This was mine,” he says, his eyes everywhere but her face.

Joanna feels far too warm. “What?” It is hard to think. It is such an innocent touch, just Aegon’s thumbs moving over her skin, and yet no one has ever touched her like… this. Until now.

“The doublet. It’s from back when I was a child.”

“Oh.” Joanna swallows. She had not known that. Illyrio had refused to get her men’s clothes, claiming them to be indecent on her, so she had looked for some on her own. The Magister had been angry but had not taken them away. For some reason, it makes her blush to know that they are Aegon’s.

“They’re too small, though.” He does not let go. Aegon leans in close, and as his thumbs sneak a mere inch higher, he leans in to whisper in her ear, “I’ll get you more recent ones.”

Then Aegon lets go.

Joanna watches him pick up the ball they had been playing with, in shock. The clothes on her body feel far too constraining now. Ghost nuzzles his snout against Aegon’s free hand, bringing to mind Robb and two sudden, unwelcome realizations.

Aegon is not trying to replace Robb at all.

_He wants to be more… and so do I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I wrote this to pass the time," I said. "Six chapters," I said.
> 
> You have my new beta NarcissisticWriter to thank for all this. She made me realize that while my original six chapters were nice and shippy, they didn't unpack the potential of Joanna's past. She's been such a great help in fleshing out this story and helping me push through any issues I had before I ended up with writer's block.
> 
> Thanks to all of you as well, for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks. As always, please comment. I love to hear what people think!


	3. iii. bazaar

Aegon takes her out into the city, pointing out monuments and buildings of note. Joanna would have enjoyed this immensely had he done so in the Common Tongue, but Aegon takes great pleasure in murmuring in her ear in the Pentoshi Bastard Valyrian then ignoring her when she replies to him in her native tongue.

 _“Valonkarhr,”_ Aegon chides, turning up his nose at her pronunciation.

 _“Valonkharr,”_ Joanna repeats, raising her head from his shoulder. She looks up at him from underneath her lashes, too distressed to be ashamed of resorting to such a thing.

Aegon gives her an unimpressed look before saying, _“Valonkarhr.”_

“Ugh.” Joanna wants to push him off their bench, but she knows from experience she is unlikely to succeed. Besides, her head hurts too much to try, and he is comfortable to cling to. “You’re insufferable.”

When he says nothing, Joanna thinks she has won. Then—

_“Valonkarhr.”_

Joanna whimpers. “Aegon.”

Aegon sighs. “You’re wrong anyway,” he says in the Common Tongue. Joanna almost kisses him for it. _“Valonqar_ is gender-neutral, but I’m older, not younger than you. It’s ‘younger sibling,’ not just ‘sibling.’”

“Let’s rest for a little while.”

“You’re going to fall asleep, Joanna.”

Joanna snuggles closer to him, smelling cinnamon on the skin of his neck. “If I do, you’ll be a good brother and carry me back safe and sound.”

“A good _brother,”_ he mutters.

“Yes,” she says, sleep pulling her under in a blink of an eye, blessed sleep consuming her until Aegon shakes her awake. “You were supposed to take me back without waking me,” she complains. Nothing puts her in a worse mood than Bastard Valyrian.

“Come on, you’ll want to see this!”

Joanna protests, but she pushes her head off Aegon’s shoulder. Her headache, at least, is better now. Night has fallen over the courtyard, but braziers light the space. “What is it?”

Aegon stands, pulling her to her feet with him. “I heard a couple talking about a mummer’s show. There’ll be a performance of Laena and Daemon.”

“Alright,” she says. Aegon pulls her through the winding streets of Pentos, their hands clapped together. He occasionally stops to ask passerby for directions, but then they arrive in yet another courtyard, one full of people.

On the stage, a visibly-pregnant Lyseni woman speaks to a richly-dressed man with dark pink hair. The crowd screams when he pulls a dagger on her, but then another man—this one with the woman’s hair, a Targaryen if there ever was one—runs into scene, cutting down the Tyroshi with a dark blade. The man takes the woman into his arms while the Tyroshi is dragged off the stage, but he ignores her while he gives his soliloquy, crying out to the skies about something Joanna does not understand, since he is speaking in Pentoshi.

Joanna shoots Aegon a dirty look.

“You have to _learn,”_ he whispers in her ear, hugging her close so as to not disturb anyone else. “Daemon is cursing the gods and his brother Viserys for forcing them to Pentos. He thinks Laena would be safer in Driftmark or King’s Landing, but he knows King Viserys would not stand for them returning so soon after their marriage. The man who almost killed Laena was a magister from Tyrosh, who wanted to get rid of the two dragonlords so that Pentos would be ripe for sacking.”

The play continues in front of her, but Joanna pays more attention to the feel of Aegon’s body against her back and his soft, deep voice whispering in her ear.

“That’s Baela and Daena,” he says when the princesses are born. “And the man they’re being presented to is the Prince of Pentos.” Of course, the Prince of Pentos is blonde as a Lannister and almost as handsome as one as well. “He’s giving them his blessing… and hmmm, Laena and Daemon are professing their love for one another.” The stage is once more empty of anyone but the two.

“Yet again.”

“Yes.” Aegon chuckles, his eyes glinting violet in this light. “Yet again.”

The play ends with the victorious Daemon and Laena sailing away along with their twin daughters, a wake of Tyroshi plotters dead in their wake, all of Pentos cheering them as they depart.

“That’s going to be us,” Aegon says softly. “When we sail for the Seven Kingdoms, that’ll be us.”

“Perhaps the people of Pentos will simply be happy to see the last of us,” Joanna teases.

“Gods, you’re dense.” Aegon snorts. “That wasn’t what I meant. Never mind,” he says when she opens her mouth to ask. “Let’s visit the bazaar.”

The marketplace is abuzz with sounds and scents, local Pentoshi mixing with foreigners from both east and west.

“Isn’t this dangerous?” Joanna whispers to Aegon over the noise. “I could be recognized.”

“I don’t think so.” Aegon turns to her, considering her from head to toe. Joanna wears an airy, pink dress she never would have been allowed to wear in Winterfell, both because of its expense and its cut. “I wouldn’t recognize you. The hair helps a lot.”

Joanna touches it, still not accustomed to the light lavender dye. “We can pass as siblings now.”

"Or a couple," Aegon suggests. He grabs her hand. “Just two Tyroshi traveling the world. There’s no need to worry.” Aegon tugs her towards a stall where an old man is selling little vials, which Joanna finds out contain oils from Lys and Myr. One of them has a bright, citrus scent that Joanna knows Sansa would love, and another is dark but fresh, like Winterfell’s godswood after it rains. “Smell this one,” he says, uncorking a vial and handing it to her. It smells of roses and oranges.

Aegon purchases all three above her protests, then drags her to another stall, this one run by a young woman that makes eyes at Aegon, to Joanna’s displeasure. She marches him to the next vendor, where they each get sticks of sausages spiced with garlic and dragon peppers. The following stall sells a sour wine of low quality that Aegon insists is heavenly. Joanna wrinkles her nose at him.

“I’m Dornish!”

“And does being Dornish prevent you from having taste buds?”

Aegon sips his wine. “It’s not that bad, Jo. And the Dornish love anything sour, I thought you should know.”

Joanna shudders.

They make their way through the stalls, occasionally stopping to gawk, occasionally being stopped by overzealous vendors pushing their wares on anyone they think has coin enough.

“Oh, these are beautiful,” Joanna says when they arrive at a large stall with bolts of fabric. “Look at this one, oh and that green!” She gasps. “Is that indigo?” She shifts the piece of fabric peeking out from underneath the bolt, allowing the firelight to hit it in full. “It’s so pretty!”

“Is it?” Aegon’s amused voice comes from behind her.

Joanna drops the fabric, flustered. “Sorr—”

“No.” Aegon winds his arm around her waist. “I just never knew you felt so strongly about… fabric.”

Joanna looks up at him. “It’s silly.”

“Sillier than my penchant for Myrish love songs?” He looks at her expectantly.

Joanna remains silent. When Aegon shrugs, she knows he is about to let it go, and that is why she tells him. Suddenly, the words are a fire within her, and she needs to let them out. “Lady Stark didn’t want me to get married. She never said so in so many words, but she wouldn’t let me sit in on any of my sisters’ lessons with their septa and I didn’t have a mother to teach me. It was her way of ensuring no one would have me even if they saw past the bastardy.” Aegon’s hand tightens on her waist. She looks away from him. _He’s not angry with me,_ Joanna tells herself, but her heart refuses to climb back down into her ribcage. In Winterfell, it often had not mattered with _whom_ someone had been angry. Joanna had always provided an easy target to vent on.

“And what does that have to do with fabric?” Aegon’s voice is unnaturally calm despite being half-drowned by all the laughter around them. His eyes—a brilliant purple in this light—are hard.

“Father didn’t let me pick up a sword and Lady Stark didn’t let me pick up a needle within her sight, so I gave up on embroidery and focused on bone lace instead.” Joanna gives him a small, unamused smile. “The South looks down on it, but it’s greatly loved in the North. Lady Stark hated it.” She had hated it even more when Joanna wore something she made to a feast and Lady Stark had had to suffer Lord Manderly’s granddaughters _ohhing_ at the patterns on Joanna’s gown.

Joanna had never done that again.

“It was the only thing I did well.” _The only thing that would impress a suitor besides my face, at any rate._

“I’m sorry, Joanna. You didn’t deserve—”

Joanna puts a finger on his lips. “I know. There’s no need to…” She swallows. _If he says something more, I might cry._ “There’s no need.” She drops her hand, embarrassed.

“Alright.” Aegon looks at her carefully. “Do you want anything?”

The excitement of finding the stall has long faded, but she does. Aegon and the old woman who owns the stall _—gods, does she speak the Common Tongue?—_ help her try the fabrics against her skin. The indigo she had first seen is lovely, but when Aegon makes to try a burnt orange piece of sandsilk against her torso, she sees the way it looks on _him._

 _Martell colors,_ Joanna thinks, an idea forming in her head.

“Are you sure?” Aegon frowns. “The purple one—”

“Have the decency to call it indigo, Aegon.”

“The _purple_ one,” he insists, “looks better.”

“I want this one, though.” Joanna gives him an innocent smile and Aegon relents at the sight.

They have the bolt of sandsilk sent to Illyrio’s manse and then continue on their way, walking arm in arm through the bazaar. Aegon lingers over an elaborate cyvasse set, but then shakes his head. Some crafty vendor almost persuades them into buying gold jewelry before he mentions it comes from Casterly Rock, at which point the two of them stomp off, only to fall prey to a little girl who offers them gingerbread nuts.

“Ginger’s my favorite,” Aegon tells her when they sit down to rest on a bench, a different one from where she had fallen asleep earlier in the day. When she does not answer, he looks down at her. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” she says, but she moves his arm to wrap around her. Joanna can tell he is pleased by this, but all she can think of is, _I should stop this, but I’m encouraging it._ “I’m just cold.” Aegon pulls her closer, but the warmer she feels, the colder she gets. _This was a mistake, all of today._

“Do you want to go back?” He pops a pecan into his mouth.

Joanna nods. “We should come back tomorrow.” _Say no,_ she begs him silently. _Say yes._ Joanna does not know which prayer she means the most.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I was hoping you’d want to as well.” He tilts up her chin.

Later, Aegon will swear he moves first, but it is Joanna who pulls him in. His lips are soft against her own, and when his tongue touches hers, she tastes the ginger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the feedback for the last chapter! I meant to update earlier but my beta and I have been a bit busy lately. I hope all the A/J interaction makes up for that, though. ;) Happy Holidays!
> 
> Sidenote: I'm really shocked no one mentioned Ghost being a matchmaker last chapter.


	4. iv. desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BLUSHING.

Joanna has only kissed two boys in her life.

She still remembers the taste of Theon’s lips on hers. At three-and-ten, she had been an awkward thing beginning to look more like a woman and less like a boy. Had she been anyone else, Theon would most likely not have bothered with her at that age… but perhaps it had been the thought of defiling one of Ned Stark’s daughters that drew him. Nothing came out of it in the end, however; they shared nothing but a few kisses, mere brushes of the lips, and when Lord Stark found out, he sat Joanna down and explained to that Theon was taking advantage of her.

Kissing Aegon is so different.

While Theon was more interested in pawing at her below the shoulders, Aegon takes the time to teach her what to do, lets her explore so she learns what she enjoys. She has never had anyone’s tongue in her mouth before, and at first it feels bizarre, but then she starts to focus on the way it feels instead of the inherent weirdness of two people putting their mouths together.

It is something they do in the dark, when Aegon sneaks into her chambers long after they are both supposed to be asleep. They keep away from the bed, settling on the window seat, on top of its plump cushions. Next to them, on nights the moon hangs in the sky, her snapdragons are silvered by its glow, the pale pink petals gleaming.

“Do you like that?” he asks when he breaks away one night.

“Yes.” Joanna grabs at his tunic and pulls him close again, biting at his bottom lip. She licks her tongue over the small hurt, making him groan. “Yes, yes.”

“Very much yes?” he murmurs against her, his hand sliding down her nape towards her front, where he trails one finger down he vee between her breasts. The tip of his finger brushes the edge of her nightgown, tugging slightly. “Hmm?” Aegon moves his hand to the side and up, following the lace up her bust, then pushes a strap on one shoulder with maddening slowness. “No? Yes?” The grey silk of her gown slips farther down, but it remains in place. Joanna watches his hand as he glides it down her neckline. She does not look up, overwhelmed, unsure, confused. Aegon waits. “No, then.” He pulls up the strap and kisses her on the lips once again.

No turns to yes, though. It does not take long. One night, Joanna shrugs the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders, letting it pool at her waist. Aegon looks up at her with surprise, but his eyes are dark. She likes how that makes her feel—unpredictable and beautiful. As long as her nightgown remains on over her legs, she reasons, what is the harm? Did Illyrio not offer her a pleasure slave from whom to learn the art of love? As long as this does not go further, there is little difference between Aegon and someone else. He will not do anything she does not want him to, and Joanna does not want anything more than this.

Obviously.

* * *

Aegon’s hands feel hot as a brand on her skin through the thin silk of her gown. He skims them up her sides, brushing his thumbs over her nipples, making her cry out, then pushes the fabric of her dress off her shoulders.

It falls like water down her frame, leaving her completely exposed save for her smallclothes. The cool air on her heated skin brings her to her senses, and she pushes him away suddenly. _Too far, too far. This isn’t how things are meant to go._  “Get out, gods! What am I doing? Don’t look!” she screams when he stands there, blinking at her. Somehow, just baring the top of her body to his eyes is safe, but anything more is blatantly not, and the last of shreds of her dignity are screaming in warning. A shrill voice in her head—one that sounds suspiciously like Lady Stark—is calling her a whore.

Joanna pulls up her dress, holding it to her chest. “Aegon—get—out!”

When Joanna’s hand rises, Aegon slams into action. “But—no, just hold on, Jo—wait, ple—” He dodges a slim silver bowl that held grapes three hours ago. “Stop.” When she throws _The Seven-Pointed Star_ at him, he grabs her wrist and pushes her against a wall. “Stop.”

Joanna does. He is so close. The hand holding her gown to her chest is bone white. “Go.” _I’m stupid with lust,_ she thinks, horrified, recalling the time she spent on a ship heading for Braavos, determined not to give up her maidenhead for a night of carnal pleasure. _Abstinence is easy when there’s no one to abstain from._ She is so angry—at herself, at Aegon; it makes no difference. Joanna is furious.

“No,” he says, making her anger swell. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but you can tell me.” He looks so earnest.

Joanna wrenches her wrist from his grip. When she does not make a grab for something to throw at him, he relaxes. “You did nothing wrong. Now leave.”

His beautiful face twists in anger. _“But why?”_ he demands. “You want me as much as I want you, you do, don’t deny it!”

 _He’s so stupid,_ Joanna thinks, on the brink of tears. She hardly feels the lace in her hand tear. “I need to marry a lord to secure you an alliance. You need to leave.” _Why doesn’t he understand? Why is he making this harder than it already is?_

“You’re not marrying a lord,” Aegon snaps. “Daenerys can do so. I want _you.”_

Joanna gives a bitter laugh. “And how do you think that’ll go over? You need her dragons, and I… I need you to leave me alone.” If Joanna had her way, she would even now be pregnant with some rich, comely Magister’s child. Aegon is handsome and makes her heart beat faster, but oh, he is not the only man with full lips and cheekbones that can likely cut glass. There are other men in the world, men who will not make her empty promises like he does, even if he does not realize they are empty. _Their hands might even be as clever as Aegon’s,_ she thinks ruefully. He is a dream, one Joanna wants desperately, but it is not like Joanna often gets what she wants.

“I don’t care. You’re not marrying a lord,” Aegon repeats, placing his free hand over hers, still clutching her gown. He slides his thigh in between hers, drawing a shiver from her. “You’re not, I forbid it. Now let go.” He does not try to pry her fingers off the lace, but the weight of his fingers, the motion of his thigh in between her legs is enough to make her want to scream. Whether in anger or pleasure, Joanna does not know. Both.

“No,” she says, her voice final, and Aegon backs down with a grimace.

* * *

Aegon is a fool, so he tells Illyrio what he wants.

“We must find a septon,” the Magister says instead of protesting. Joanna is immediately suspicious. “You must wed before the gods of your people, Your Grace, but if I may be so bold…”

_And here it is._

Joanna tells herself she is not disappointed. She expected this, after all, and a part of her feels vindicated. Of course, a tiny, unacknowledged piece of her heart breaks off at being right as well, at receiving proof of being thought of as _lesser,_ but Joanna needs to be strong. _This is how the world works._ Some part of her, stupidly, must have truly harbored illusions of being with Aegon— _no, of being Queen,_ she reminds herself—for she feels devastated despite everything _._

That night, Aegon sneaks into her rooms once again, and is shocked to find her bed occupied by Ghost.

“Illyrio finally let him out. He’s supposed to keep you away from me,” she says from her perch on the window seat. Aegon’s little pot of snapdragons is next to her. She was contemplating throwing it out the window before he came in. If ever a plant deserves to pay for Joanna’s displeasure, it is this one.

Aegon gives Ghost a cursory glance, approaching her when he apparently decides Ghost will not attack him. “Well, he doesn’t look like he wants to.”

“He’ll want to if _I_ want him to.”

Aegon stops in front of her. “You don’t seem to want him to.”

“I will if you step out of line.” She reaches out to touch his face, a shadow of blonde stubble against her palm. “I have something for you.”

He smiles. “You do?”

Joanna stands, stepping around him. She takes out a simple square of cloth from one of her vanity’s drawers. “For you.”

Aegon looks down at it, taking it in his hands. “Oh.” It is the Martell sun and spear embroidered in yellow and red, positioned on one corner of the handkerchief. “This is…”

“The bolt of sandsilk you got me that night, yes.” The night they first kissed. The burnt orange color is striking against his skin still.

“Is this bone lace?” he asks, brushing his fingers over the red border on the piece of cloth.

“You should call it pillow lace.” _You’ll rule from the South, not the North._ “I’m sorry it’s not the prettiest. I had to convince Septa Jenelle to teach me how to embroider and I’m not very good at—”

“I love it,” he says, and her heart picks up. “Thank you, Jo.”

He comes closer to her at the same time she takes a step back. _This is goodbye,_ Joanna decides. “Tomorrow I’ll be gone. You may find you’ll be far more interested in marrying Daenerys after that.”

Aegon purses his lips in anger. “I won’t be.” He pulls her up against him. He goes still when his hands inch inside her robe to trail over her hip and find nothing but skin. “What exactly is stepping out of line if this is allowed?” There is heat in his eyes.

Joanna runs her hands down his nightshirt, feeling the ridges of his abdomen through the thin fabric. He pulls it up and off, letting her caress the planes of his chest, gold in the braziers’ light. She feels him tremble, and it brings a smile to her face. _He did promise he’d make me smile, didn’t he?_ She rises up on her toes so that he feels all of her, and whispers in his ear, “Keep your cock to yourself.”

Aegon takes a shaky breath. With their bodies flushed together, she can feel how her words affect him. There is something about vulgarity in a woman that usually acts like a lady, something that makes men tremble.

“Does it really matter when we consummate our marriage?” He slides her robe off her. “Before or after, no one has to know but us.” He is so sweet, her brother—but no, better not to think of him as her _brother._ It always turns her stomach.

 _Illyrio is playing you like the harp you love so much,_ Joanna wants to tell him. They are never going to wed, not if the Magister has a say about it. _But I’ll enjoy tonight._

* * *

“Maybe you shouldn’t go. Why can’t someone else bring Daenerys west? Ser Barristan should have come back with her, but he hasn’t. What if you die in the attempt?” he murmurs into her hair as dawn spreads her greedy fingers over their tangled legs. A stray breeze sweeps through her windows, and the snapdragons sway in the wind. Joanna cannot tear her eyes away. There is something approaching panic, something crawling up her throat, and no matter how much she tries to push it down, it refuses to settle.

 _A worthwhile risk,_ Joanna thinks _, that’s what my death is, as far as the Magister is concerned._ Once Aegon demanded to marry her, it was over. Joanna went from an asset to a liability. _Daenerys is to be your bride, not me. I’m to be married off for an army._

And still, how is that a horrible fate? It is not. When she had left Winterfell with her father—her father, oh, she still forgets her father is not her father; she still forgets her fathers are dead, both of them—to marry a Lord Paramount would have been an unreachable dream. Now her doors have slammed open wide, and she will not feel bitter over not being Queen.

To be a great lady will be more than enough. It _must_ be.

“I won’t die, Aegon.” It is a promise. Joanna refuses to die young, forgotten.

This does not reassure Aegon, though, because he says, “You can’t go.” His words are a harsh gasp. “I love you. I love you, Joanna, I love you. It’s not the type of love that fades. Someone else can bring Daenerys to us, but you need to stay by my side. I _love_ you,” he murmurs insistently, not for the first time. He had said those words so often the night before that she feels like they have been branded on her skin. Aegon sounds so honest, so confident and determined. Joanna has no idea why he wants _her,_ out of everyone in the world.

Joanna does not love Aegon. She wants his crown, yes, and she wants to look down on all the people who once looked down on _her._ For so many years, all that had kept her warm through the cold nights had been her bitterness, but now? She does not need bitterness, and she can do without being Aegon’s Queen. Aegon is sweet—so, so sweet, and she wants him more than she should—but she does not _love_ him, not yet, and she must keep it that way. Better to think of him as a missed opportunity, as a shiny thing she can never have, than a man she likes spending time with, a man she wants.

 _Get up, get dressed,_ Joanna orders herself. _You need to go before you do something stupid._ She lets herself imagine a future where Aegon does marry her, where Daenerys does not want to be Queen. _I can kiss him right now, and if I do, he’ll take me. If I do, if I let go, he may truly marry me. Illyrio doesn’t have to know until after, and what will he do then? My parents did it, my parents got away with it._

Joanna’s heart chills then. Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark did not get away with marrying one another, though; they died for what they did. Joanna forces herself to imagine a different future, one where Daenerys orders her dragons to burn Joanna and Aegon alive; another where Daenerys does not mind but they lose the war anyway, for want of the army Joanna’s hand could have brought.

“It must be me. I want to meet her.”

Aegon gives her a sharp look. “You didn’t want to meet _me.”_

Joanna sits up, shivering. Aegon is warm as a furnace, and she wants to remain in his arms until it is time to depart, but she cannot. _Think of the consequences._ “Maybe that’s why I want to meet her? Because you showed me how wonderful you are?”

Aegon drags her back onto the bed to lie next to, then under, him. He is usually so shy, but not in bed. She wonders if he had had any of the pleasure slaves roaming Illyrio’s manse. _Probably._ The thought bothers her more than it should, and she knows she is walking a very thin line here. _If I let myself love him, he can hurt me. I need to leave. I have so many reasons to leave. I should. I have to._ Aegon, unaware of her thoughts, says, “Then you can stay with me. It wouldn’t do for you to forget how _wonderful_ I am.” He kisses a path down the valley between her breasts.

“Aegon,” Joanna warns him halfheartedly, but then he—

* * *

It does feel good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not posting in so long! I know these chapters are really short and I should therefore update more often, but... yeah, sorry.
> 
> Thanks again to NarcissisticWriter for betaing. This chapter has gone through so many drafts because of what it focuses on and consent is always such a touchy issue. I hope everyone likes it.
> 
> As always, please comment. Hearing people's thoughts makes me so happy. I love hearing your insights.


	5. v. dragon queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The much-anticipated meeting with Daenerys.

Daenerys Targaryen is not in Qarth.

Joanna has the captain turn her ship around, back west towards Astapor, where she finds controlled chaos.

“The dragon queen does have dragons, m’lady,” the captain tells her. “She freed the slaves and took Astapor, then Yunkai. Peace didn’t last, not a bit, no, and the masters are trying to wrestle back power over the region even now. We must leave immediately.”

“She freed the slaves?” Joanna asks, for the moment disregarding everything else the man has said, so thrilled and awed is she.

The captain nods, and Joanna forces herself to save her admiration for later. “Why must we leave so soon? Isn’t Astapor still under Daenerys’ control?”

“No, m’lady. The council she left behind was overthrown. It’s a good thing we didn’t arrive under the Targaryen banner or they may not have let us leave. They can’t know about you.”

Joanna feels herself pale.

Joanna’s crew sets off, their ship sailing straight for Meereen. She whiles away her days with needle and thread, embroidering half a dozen suns on Aegon’s orange sandsilk, each successive sigil becoming more clear and defined, but she also recites the names of the important Riverlands Houses like Septa Jenelle told her to— _Blackwood, Bracken, Darry, Frey, Lothson, Mallister, Mooton;_ more—and wonders what Daenerys Targaryen will be like.

In this final leg of her journey, Joanna is eager to arrive, for all that she is headed towards Aegon’s future bride.

* * *

Joanna should have expected it, but she does not.

Daenerys is astoundingly beautiful, Aegon’s perfect female mirror. Her hair is spun silver, braided in an intricate style that probably took her handmaidens hours to perfect.

“And you’re my brother’s daughter?” she asks Joanna, no hint of an accent in her words.

“I am, Your Grace. I was raised by my lady mother’s brother, Lord Eddard Stark.”

“One of the Usurper’s dogs.”

Joanna blinks, then bristles. “My father—”

“Wasn’t my brother your father?”

Joanna leans back in her chair, thoroughly offended and no longer feeling any awe for her aunt. She glances over at Ser Barristan, who is looking at Joanna in a way that suggests she has become the tenth wonder made by man. _He didn’t look at me like this when he thought I was just Ned Stark’s bastard,_ Joanna thinks crossly. “Rhaegar Targaryen was my father by blood, but my uncle raised me as his own daughter, protected me from… the Usurper.” Joanna does not feel comfortable using that title at all, but she must. It is expected of her.

“Why didn’t he hand you over to the Targaryen loyalists? If you’re my niece in truth, then you should have been with Viserys and I.” Daenerys shakes her head. “How old are you?”

“I’m six-and-ten, Your Grace.”

“You’re my niece,” she says, an unamused laugh passing her lips, “but you’re older than I.”

“Yes.” She has nothing else to say. Honestly, from the way Illyrio had spoken of her, Joanna had expected a timid child-woman ripe to be plucked and, if needed, molded. She should have known better from the moment she saw the House of the Undying’s ruins in Qarth.

Daenerys studies Joanna. The room is silent as a crypt—silent as Winterfell’s crypts, and gods, she wishes she had known Lyanna was her mother, wishes she had visited her grave when she was in Winterfell. Then suddenly, the dragon queen appears to make a decision, for the next second, the girl slouches and she looks so _tired._ “It’s a good thing you weren’t with us. Viserys didn’t know what he was doing, and I suspect you were far happier with your uncle in the North than I with my brother in the Free Cities.”

Joanna proceeds with caution. “Perhaps, Your Grace. Everyone has their own nightmares to deal with.” _Mine has blue eyes and red hair. Does yours look like Aegon?_

She means to comfort, and it works.

Daenerys gives her a soft smile.

* * *

It is a week later that she dares ask after the dragons.

“I locked them beneath the Great Pyramid. Drogon… my dragon… he ate a little girl.” Daenerys folds her hands together in her lap, her head lowered. “I can’t control them, Joanna. I’m only one and there are three of them. They’re my children… but they don’t listen to their mother.”

Joanna does not want a dragon, not really. She still is rather enamored with the idea of marrying a rich Magister and not doing a thing with her life. If now she is more likely to head to Lys in search for a man with violet eyes and silver hair, well, who can blame her? Who needs Queenship anyway? It sounds exhausting.

Still, Daenerys is looking at her beseechingly.

Joanna obliges her. “You’re no longer alone.”

“Before I knew of you, I thought I had to marry two men, for the dragon must have three heads, but with you here, I think one of them is you.” Daenerys beams. “The other may be one of our husbands—or your child, perhaps one day.”

Joanna frowns. _“My_ child? Why mine and not yours?” The point is moot, of course, because she has not yet found the right time to tell her about Aegon, and the third dragon will no doubt be his to ride.

Daenerys’ smile falls. “I’m barren.” There is absolutely no emotion in her voice, but the way Daenerys lets the words fall from her lips, so matter-of-factly, says much.

“Oh,” Joanna says. _I guess Aegon is not getting a Valyrian bride at all, then._ Joanna rushes to Daenerys’ side, wrapping her arms around her. It is as if Joanna’s touch shatters Daenrys’ will, and the other girl loses her footing, falling into Joanna’s arms. “Dany, are you certain?”

Daenerys nods, tears in her eyes, a sob bursting from her throat.

* * *

Rhaegal twines his tail around her legs, oddly reminiscent of a cat.

“How are you doing that?” Daenerys’ eyes are wide.

“I’m not doing anything.” Joanna raises her arms, allowing the dragon to nuzzle his head into her stomach. She rubs the scales over his nose with the tip of her finger, oh so gentle. Rhaegal puffs up smoke, making a low whine that reminds her of Florian. She looks into his bronze eyes, and for a second she sees herself through his eyes: a small creature who smells of fire and smoke and home. Rhaegal turns, and Joanna sees Daenerys— _mother, mother, mother—_ with her silks and silver hair.

“Drogon doesn’t let me do that.”

“I know someone who might know why,” she says, thinking of Tyrion, “but not only is he in the Seven Kingdoms… he’s also a Lannister.”

Daenerys narrows her eyes. “You are friends with far too many of our enemies. One day, we’ll take back what’s ours and you’ll have to watch them die.”

Joanna feels wild and untethered to the world, like she truly has wings, when she allows herself to slip into Rhaegal’s thoughts. It is like she keeps one feet on the ground and another in the skies, inside Rhaegal’s heart. Daenerys’ words reach her through the divide. “I think you’d like him. He has little reason to love his family… and _we_ have dragons. I think he’d side with us for that alone.”

Daenerys gives Rhaegal yet another incredulous look, but then they both drop the matter of Tyrion Lannister. “My Unsullied are ready. We depart at dawn.” She sighs. “Had I known of you, I would have made west without taking Meereen.”

Joanna knows it cannot be an easy thing for Daenerys to admit. Many of the slaves she freed will no doubt be enslaved once again when the two of them leave, but this is not their _home._ Winterfell had been Joanna’s home once, but not anymore. Perhaps now, with Daenerys and her dragons, she can have a real home, a real family. _That home doesn’t include Aegon,_ Joanna thinks. She imagines him with Margaery Tyrell, Arianne Martell or even _Sansa._ The thought of Sansa, Lady Stark’s very image, standing next to Aegon with a crown on her head curdles her stomach. Joanna removes her hands from Rhaegal’s face, afraid that she will hurt him in her anger. _You have no right to feel this way,_ Joanna tells herself. _This is beyond foolish._

She takes a deep breath. “There’s something I haven’t told you, Dany.” Joanna feels the guilt bubbling inside her. She knows Daenerys will take badly to the news of Aegon’s survival, and for that reason she has put off mentioning him. She does not want to break her and Daenerys’ growing bond. “My half-brother Aegon is alive. He was smuggled out of King’s Landing after the Sack. The throne is… his.”

That is the _truth._ Daenerys dreams of taking back the Iron Throne and ruling, wedding Joanna to a great lord and making her son the heir to House Targaryen, but it is a silly dream and nothing more.

“Oh, he’s alive?” Joanna cannot look at her, not now that her words have turned into a whip. “Are there any more secret Targaryens that I should know about, Joanna?”

“Not that I know of, Dany.”

* * *

Daenerys leaves a council in charge of Meereen, but just like with Astapor and Yunkai, it does not last.

“We can’t turn back,” Joanna says upon receiving the news, one hand on Daenerys’ shoulder. “Perhaps one day we can return, once we take back the Iron Throne. We can free the—”

Daenerys gives a watery laugh. “If I look back I’m lost,” she mutters. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself, but you made me look back, you forced me to. I wanted to free the slaves so I did, and that was _just,_ but was it right? Was that my destiny?” Daenerys wipes away her tears, but she keeps crying, so she drops her hands back onto her lap. “Meereen is a city of harpies, but I’m a dragon, not a harpy. I want to go _home._ They need me, the slaves need me, but I want—” Daenerys wraps her arms around herself. “Is that selfish of me?”

_It is,_ Joanna thinks, but she says, “And don’t you have a right to be selfish sometimes?”

Joanna takes a seat next to Daenerys. She rests her head on Joanna’s shoulder. “I could have done more.”

“A single person can’t smash the slave trade by herself, not even if she has dragons.” Joanna runs her fingers through Daenerys’ silky hair. “You freed eight-thousand Unsullied in Astapor alone. You gave them hope.” Joanna rather thinks said hope was extinguished upon Daenerys’ departure from Meereen, but she is not about to say that. “You’re six-and-ten. You can’t hold yourself personally responsible for the lives of thousands.”

For the longest time, Daenerys says nothing at all. Then, “It’s not fair.”

Joanna feels tears prickle her eyes. “Nothing ever is.”

And that night she dreams of things that are not fair: Cersei Lannister, golden and beautiful, taking a knife to Lady’s throat before running the blade through Ghost; of a faceless executioner taking off Lord Stark’s head as the Queen smiles a terrible grin; of Arya’s head on a spike, presented to Sansa as a wedding gift; of Robb being lowered into the crypts of Winterfell, so close to Lyanna Stark, who weeps tears of blood; of Daenerys marching back to Meereen and being crucified; of handsome, kingly Jaime Lannister stabbing a sword through Rhaegal’s eye; of a beautiful wedding, Joanna in red and Aegon in black, only for them to die at Lady Stark’s hands.

Joanna stares into Aegon’s eyes as he dies, their violet turning blue, and then Aegon moves.

“Come, Ghost.” Aegon sits cross-legged on the floor, or rather the deck of an old ship. Sunlight glints off his dark blue hair, turning it bright, and his roots are beginning to show silver.

Joanna goes to his side, nuzzling his palm.

“Remarkable beast, that direwolf. He really seems to like you,” comes the voice of Tyrion Lannister. Joanna turns to look at him, short and missing half a nose, his silks replaced by threadbare clothes. _Whatever happened to him?_

“Jon purchased him for me from a Braavosi merchant when he was a pup.” Joanna can feel how tense Aegon is. “To protect me.”

“Truly? And as a pup, you say? I’d be interested in learning how he ended up there at that age. I imagine I’m quite the lucky man, to meet not one but _two_ albino direwolves in my lifetime.”

Aegon’s eyes widen. “Two?”

Tyrion sets a screen on top of a cyvasse board. Aegon picks the white pieces for himself, Tyrion the black. “Oh, yes. It seems all the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms will soon have their sigils for pets. Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, Edmure Tully and his floppy fish, Loras Tyrell and his splendid cape of roses. Can you call a rose a pet? Perhaps that doesn’t work, then, but I’m sure my nephew Joffrey would have enjoyed a lion as a wedding gift. It would have eaten him, and then I wouldn’t have had to kill him myself. And of course, the Stark children have their wolves. Ned Stark had this bastard girl, his one shame, such a cold little thing. King Robert—ah, the Usurper, I _beg_ your pardon, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Myself, never saw the appeal, but she did have a pouty little mouth made to—”

“Be quiet,” Aegon snaps. Aegon’s maester settles in on Aegon’s other side, watching silently.

“Oh, touched a nerve, did I? Well, the girl… she had a direwolf as well. An albino, just like this one. Funnily enough, his name was _also_ Ghost.” Tyrion removes the screen, revealing his formation. He has his dragon in the middle, surrounded by elephants, much like Aegon. Joanna never cared about the game, much to Aegon’s irritation, so she does not understand its subtleties. “You can have first move, my prince.”

“If you have something to say, say it now.” Aegon picks up a light horse and slams the piece back against the board.

“I’m merely curious about the direwolf.” Tyrion looks at Joanna. “How did _you_ end up with Joanna Snow’s pet? The girl went missing from King’s Landing almost the moment Cersei jailed her father. Now, I assume Varys had something to do with that, but then why not save my little wife as well? She would have been far more useful a tool.”

_My little wife?_

“You’re too good at unfettering secrets,” Aegon seethes. “I should have your tongue, then you’d be quiet and I’d get to smash you to pieces in blessed silence.”

“My tongue? No, you can’t have it. How else would I please my women? But now that you mention it, did you know your grandfather was also fond of tearing out tongues?” Tyrion smiles, a twisted, ugly thing made to mock. “In King’s Landing, the King’s Justice used to be my lord father’s captain of the guard, but one day he was overheard saying something or other about your grandfather, and the rest is history.”

Aegon winces. “I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t you? It’s a dangerous thing, for kings to speak before they think things through.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Take Joffrey, for example. Everyone told him to spare our late Lord Stark, but when the time came, Joffrey had him executed, no matter how much my sweet sister protested.”

Joanna snarls. _No, Cersei did it, Cersei ordered him to. She had it done, just like with Lady!_ She wants to scream at them both how wrong they are.

“Down, Ghost,” Aegon says, running his hand down Ghost’s back. When she makes to leap at Tyrion, Aegon tackles her. “Alright, Lannister is sorry. Don’t eat him, please. Jon would be cross with me. Ghost!” She throws him off, cornering Tyrion against the rail of the ship.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Ghost, stop!” Aegon shouts.

The commotion brings Aegon’s Septa up to the deck. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing, nothing. Ghost!” she hears Aegon say from next to her. Joanna feels his arms around her neck, trying to move her, but Joanna keeps looking into Tyrion Lannister’s mismatched eyes.

Those eyes follow her out of sleep when she screams herself awake, drawing handmaidens and guards into her pavilion.

“It was Cersei. It was Cersei.”

_How will I have my revenge otherwise, if Joffrey is dead?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? I updated on _time?_ Everyone was so curious about Daenerys, I made a note to post as soon as I could. Thanks so much for all the comments, and I hope the chapter doesn't disappoint! I know the story has been moving very slowly for a while now, but things will be picking up from now on. I'd love to hear what everyone thinks!


	6. vi. demon road

As if by design, Drogon returns to Daenerys’ side mere hours before Mantarys comes into view. Daenerys straightens her shoulders and goes to meet him in the field, servants following after her with a heavy saddle, chains rattling. While before it was agreed that Joanna would ride Rhaegal and burn Mantarys’ gates to the ground, Daenerys is the one who does so from atop Drogon, fierce and terrible, a silver dot on top of her black dread of a dragon.

Rhaegal and Drogon circle over the city for the duration of the sack, roaring and occasionally spewing flame to inspire fear. When a Targaryen banner is raised in the tallest tower of the high, black castle that rules the city, they descend towards one of its many courtyards, where they accept the surrender of a small, pale man in grey robes.

“I was expecting a city of monsters,” Joanna tells Daenerys that night before they retire for bed. They sit on the middle of a large bed, plump cushions and soft blankets strewn around them. “Mantarys has such a dark reputation.”

 _“We_ are the monsters,” Daenerys says simply, her eyes lowered to gaze into her watered wine. “We have dragons.” She takes a sip. “We _are_ dragons.”

 _I’m not a monster,_ Joanna thinks that night, and the next and the next. Every night, until Daenerys hears news of Khal Jhaqo riding close to the demon road. She is gone before Joanna wakes, but when she sets off on Rhaegal to look for her, Daenerys is easy enough to find in the twilight.

“What have you done?” Joanna whispers to herself. “What have you _done?”_

Daenerys must see how horrified Joanna is when she traverses the field to stand next to her, because she explains, “I call this justice.”

Joanna stares at the burning man, even now screaming. Behind them, thousands kneel, and in front of them, three dragons near the fire, glorying in the heat. From the corner of her eye, she sees Viserion, his scales a pale orange in the torchlight. He makes a low, pleased growling sound that sends shivers down her spine. “The Mad King killed my other grandfather,” someone says suddenly. The words pass Joanna’s lips, but she is not sure who is speaking them. “He burned him.”

Daenerys must never have heard this story, for she remains silent for some time. Then she speaks, as she always eventually does, queen that she is. “Why?”

“Because he could. Because fire is the champion of House Targaryen.” _Because it’s what monsters do._

“Khal Jhaqo’s life was mine to end, Joanna. It’s not the same,” Daenerys says, yanking her by the arm so that Joanna looks into her eyes, away from the burning man. “He hurt and raped and tortured a woman under my protection, and for that he’s paying. A dragon’s justice is bloody, but it’s what keeps men from being monsters themselves.”

“I don’t want to be a monster,” Joanna whispers. It is in her blood. It is a curse. In Daenerys, Joanna sees her future—a girl who means the best and turns to violence for revenge. _It’s the blood of the dragon._

“Then be a mother.” Daenerys drops Joanna’s arm. “Someone must be.”

 _That someone isn’t me,_ Joanna thinks.

* * *

Daenerys and Joanna march west along the demon road, Daenerys’ Unsullied and her new khalasar in tow. By night, the two huddle along a campfire and tell stories in High Valyrian, her aunt having shown Aegon’s same predilection for making Joanna suffer under the guise of teaching her the tongue of dragons.

“They answer to it,” Daenerys insists.

“Because you trained them to,” Joanna says sourly, but after a fortnight of attempting to teach Rhaegal to respond to her commands in the Common Tongue, she is forced to admit that is not the case. Something about High Valyrian’s lilting tones calms the dragons, but whether it is innate or learned as a result of Daenerys’ nurturing, she does not know.

Daenerys, unlike Aegon, does not cave to Joanna’s sweet looks and shy smiles, which serves to speed up Joanna’s progress to the point that her own thoughts become a mix of Valyrian and the Common Tongue. Drinking ale and eating horseflesh under the stars while sitting across from Daenerys becomes the high point of her day. When it gets late and the food is put away, Joanna takes out her silk and embroidery tools.

“How many are you going to make him?” Daenerys asks her.

Joanna shrugs. “I’m just practicing.” She has stitched so many of the Martell sigils on squares of sandsilk that the blazing sun and golden spear is burnt behind her eyelids. “I gave Aegon this ugly thing before I left him. I want him to have a nicer one.”

“But does he need so many?”

“I—” Joanna blushes. “I’ll just give him the last one I make. As I said, I’m just practicing.”

“You could practice by making _me_ something with a dragon,” Daenerys mutters.

Joanna sees her chance. “Or I could teach you how to do it yourself.”

Daenerys scoots away from her, giving Joanna’s embroidery frame a wary look. “One day.” Then, to distract Joanna, Daenerys speaks of Viserys and their travels, as she often does. Sometimes she even speaks of Willem Darry, the old knight who was kind to her, and of a big house with a red door. Joanna, in turn, tells her of Arya and the North.

“I thought I was the last,” Daenerys tells her one night before she staggers away to her furs, the late hour having caught up to her. “I thought I had to be Aegon the Conqueror and Jaehaerys the Conciliator both at once, but that’s not so.”

Joanna sends her off with a kiss on her cheek, Daenerys pulling away with a laugh, a jest and a roll of her eyes at her mothering. Joanna does not mind; Daenerys, even more than Joanna, craves affection and touch. She retires to her tent with that thought, but once alone, she finds herself missing Aegon, and she is not surprised when she slips into Ghost’s wild mind upon closing her eyes.

Aegon is not in his tent, and for that she is glad. Looking through Ghost’s eyes is not voluntary, and it often takes something unpleasant or falling asleep as Ghost to push her back into herself. Joanna did not know she could do this when she left Ghost with Aegon. If she had, she would have told Aegon about it so as to not infringe on his privacy, but as it is, Aegon tends to keep Ghost close for his own protection. Joanna does not like it at all, dreading the possibility of one day finding Aegon in bed with someone else.

Sometimes, she thinks that a mercy.

Sometimes, she thinks that a cruelty. _He would be easier to forget then._ He has no obligations to her, after all, just like she has no obligations to him, even if she has no intentions of being with anyone else. _Until my wedding._ Then, Aegon will be a thing of the past.

Joanna goes looking for him, exiting Aegon’s tent and emerging out into the Golden Company’s impressive camp. The sellswords give her ample berth, looking at her warily despite having spent more than a moon in Ghost’s presence. One brave squire points at Jon’s tent when he sees her, telling her that Young Griff is inside and to _please_ not eat him. Joanna does not give any indication that she hears him, knowing from experience that singling anyone out will only terrify them more.

Ghost is almost as tall as the tallest man in the Company, after all.

Joanna noses open the tent, sliding inside with nary a sound. Inside, Aegon and Tyrion are bent over a cyvasse board, as they often are. Joanna does not have to look at the pieces to know who is winning. It is always Tyrion, which is why Aegon insists on playing it so much—because he is determined to win at least once.

_Tyrion indulges him because it makes Aegon’s tongue looser than drink._

“—ave a tanner from Pisswater bend a flagon of Arbor Gold for his son. He died at my lady mother’s breast and when the time was right, Lord Varys smuggled me to Magister Illyrio across the narrow sea.” Aegon greets Ghost by running a hand through the wolf’s bright white pelt—cut short to account for the heat of Volon Therys’ outskirts—but he does not look up from the board. He moves his white dragon and takes out one of Tyrion’s elephants.

Tyrion sends her a look. He has grown cautious of Ghost ever since Joanna almost attacked him in the _Shy Maid’s_ deck. When he appears satisfied that Ghost will not leap at him, he moves a piece and turns back to Aegon. “What songs they’ll sing for you one day. You’ll cover yourself in glory and rise Aegon the Dragon reborn, take the Iron Throne and make the kingdoms bend to your will. As long as our little dragon queen takes you for a husband, of course.” When Aegon does not reply, Tyrion scowls. “She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, the men say. You’ll have your work cut out for you when you court her.”

“I won’t,” Aegon says absentmindedly. He picks up a cyvasse piece, but then sets it down again with a frustrated sound.

“No?” Tyrion opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “If she doesn’t recognize you as her king…” He presses his lips together when Aegon keeps his attention on their game of cyvasse. “You need her.”

Joanna wants to laugh. For all that cyvasse does make Aegon’s tongue looser, it sometimes has the opposite effect, with Aegon becoming so engrossed he half-ignores Tyrion. She draws closer to Aegon, nuzzling his side. Aegon scratches Ghost behind the ears, and Joanna lowers her head on his leg, curling around his back. He finally decides on a move, then looks up at Tyrion. “I need Daenerys’ name. I need her dragons. I don’t need _her.”_

Tyrion gives him an incredulous look.

 _You absolute fool,_ Joanna thinks, all her amusement being leeched away. She knows Daenerys will crush him if he treats her like she is a means to an end, if he expects her to be a tool, but then the next second Aegon runs his hand down Ghost’s back and her anger dissipates.

“Where were you all day, Ghost? Harry’s convinced you took one of the men and ate him.” He taps her nose. “Jon is making it worse and implying you _did._ They’re horrible!” He smiles down at her, appearing well pleased with whatever move he has come up with on the cyvasse board.

Game forgotten, Tyrion derails the conversation back into place by saying, “You can’t mean that. Daenerys Targaryen rose from nothing, hatched dragons, conquered cities and even now braves the demon road like no one has dared do in centuries. She’s a conqueror, the intellectual heir to House Targaryen. She’s _proud._ Else, she wouldn’t have survived the Dothraki and the masters. You must court her or else she’ll set her dragons on _you._ She was Queen in Meereen, but she marches for the Seven Kingdoms to take the Iron Throne. Do you think she’ll accept your claim if you demote her to a Princess when she’s so much more? Daenerys Targaryen needs you much less than she does you, boy.”

“I’m not a boy,” Aegon snaps, his mood souring, but he keeps stroking Ghost’s fur. “I’ll not have her.”

“But—”

“I’ve decided. Now hush.” Aegon looks at Joanna, his eyes softening. “Are you hungry, hmmm? Jon’s squire should be around here somewhere. I can go tell him to brin—”

“You stupid little fool, you love that wolf too much for your own good. The men whisper about being stationed in this rotten place for moons, see the roots of your hair, see the direwolf, and say you’re the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, come to take vengeance against the Lannisters for your slain family. Keep this up and the Martells will believe it as well when you land. There won’t be any banners to raise at all. Will you still not have Daenerys then?”

Aegon glares at Tyrion. Joanna makes to leave, knowing this conversation is one she does not want to overhear, but Aegon winds his arm around her neck, hugging Ghost close.

“The Martells will have me,” Aegon insists. “But so will the Starks. They _will._ Robb Stark will bend the knee. He has enough enemies already. _”_

“The Starks have no reason to love you. If that was your intention, then it wasn’t the bastard Varys should have spirited out of King’s Landing, but my _wife._ You could have married her.”

Joanna tenses at his words. _He married Sansa? No, she would have hated that, no—_

“She’s worth more than a bastard, comely though said bastard may be.”

Joanna goes cold. She feels anger, sadness, betrayal. _Shame, shame as well,_ she admits to herself. Even Tyrion, who had told her he has a weakness for bastards, cripples and broken things thinks Sansa better, more important, than Joanna. _And why wouldn’t he?_ Then, _No, I’m worth more. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks as long as I know my worth._ Still, Joanna burrows into Aegon’s chest, seeking comfort, Sansa’s unfortunate marriage temporarily forgotten underneath the hurt.

“I wouldn’t have married her either.”

When Tyrion next speaks, his voice is like thunder. “Calling you a fool is too kind. You won’t have Daenerys Targaryen and you won’t have Sansa Stark—”

“Highgarden had your marriage to Sansa Stark annulled and wed her to Willas Tyrell more than two moons ago. It doesn’t matter anymore. Let this lie, Lannister.”

 _Oh, I’m sure Sansa loved that. Marrying yet another cripple. She’ll have the pretty face and he’ll have the brains,_ Joanna thinks spitefully. Back in Pentos, before Renly died and the Tyrells declared for the Lannisters, Septa Jenelle had Joanna memorize the heraldry, traditions and relevant people of the Reach, Willas Tyrell being one of them. Later, after news came of the Battle of the Blackwater, her lessons took an alarming swerve into the Riverlands and House Tully, but Joanna had been so sickened she never allowed herself to think about what that probably means for her future.

Tyrion ignores Aegon. “You won’t have her but you say the Starks will be on your side. Tell me you don’t truly mean to marry the _bastard.”_

Aegon does not deny it, and for a minute, there is silence.

“Where is she?”

“Elsewhere,” Aegon says simply.

Tyrion stares at Aegon, his brow set into a frown. He shakes his head, but he does so slowly, as if dazed, and in his eyes Joanna sees pain. "So many secrets surround you and I've found them all bar one.” Something close to envy touches Tyrion’s voice. “She must be important indeed to guard her secret so zealously, when you didn't care half as much if I found out about _you."_

Clearly uncomfortable, Aegon looks away and down at Joanna, running his fingers over Ghost’s fur. “It’s none of your business.”

“It _is_ my business. You’re going to press my claim to the West. It’s in my best interest you succeed.” Tyrion’s voice softens. “You don’t have to wed her. Horrible things happen to women who marry above their station. I’d know. Last time I spoke to the Lady Joanna, she decided she’d marry a rich merchant from the Free Cities. I may have given her that idea, but—”

Aegon scoffs. “Ah, so I have you to thank for that. She mentioned that once or twice. Preposterous.”

“You have me to thank for a lot, _Your Grace,”_ Tyrion mocks, fast as a whip. “If I hadn’t put that idea inside her head, she wouldn’t have gone South at all and your sweet winter rose would be popping out children in White Harbor right now.” Tyrion sighs. “I understand you may be smitten with her, but just think. You won’t do her any favors by marrying her and then losing your war. That’s what happened to your lady mother, my prince. Your father lost and Elia Martell paid the price.”

Aegon’s nails dig into Ghost’s neck before he eases his hold, soothing the hurts with the brush of his fingers. “That’s different.”

“It’s worse. But if you do things right, if you win your throne… then why would she even marry a fat Magister from the Free Cities, when she can be your mistress?”

At first, the words do not register in Joanna’s mind.

“I’m going to cut off your tongue,” Aegon hisses, livid.

“Being the King’s beloved mistress is better than—”

“Your tongue,” Aegon says, “and your cock. I would _never_ take her as my mistress. She’ll be my wife.” He fists his hand in Ghost’s fur, and Joanna does not know how to feel. _Nothing would please me more than to be Queen, but can Aegon win the throne without giving away my hand?_ The dragons are yet young; Drogon is no Balerion.

“Even if you legitimize her—” Tyrion tries.

Aegon stands up, stepping over the cyvasse board to hoist Tyrion up by his tunic. “I won’t explain myself to you. You’re amusing, clever and a formidable ally, but I’ll not have you question me in this. You’ve overstepped.”

Joanna paws over to the two, forcing herself in between them. She is afraid Aegon will do something he will regret. Tyrion’s limp legs brush against Ghost’s belly, but the dwarf does not struggle.

“Your father,” Tyrion says darkly, “was also a fool mad with love. Look wh—”

“My father was mad with _lust,_ the gods curse him,” Aegon snarls, his eyes lit with fury. For a second, Joanna thinks of Viserion’s molten eyes and the way he ate Khal Jhaqo’s burning form, swallowing the last of the man’s dying screams. “But had Brandon Stark been less of an idiot, there would have been no Robert’s Rebellion. His stupid sister ran away with a married man and she was willing, yet it’s my mother people blame for not pleasing him enough. My mother was blameless, my father was a fool, and Lyanna Stark was nothing but a temptress with ambitions that didn't concern her. She's the reason I'm here today, exiled and alone and about to fight a war that will bleed the Seven Kingdoms dry.”

It is the last line that does it, that disturbs her enough to tear her from within the warm cocoon of Ghost’s mind. Joanna does not fall into sleep, instead waking to the darkness of her tent. She pushes off her furs and steps outside. Beneath her feet, even at night, the demon road is heated after being baked by the sun for all the centuries since the dragonlords built it. For all that the air around her is stifling hot, Joanna feels chilled to the bone.

_If that’s what he thinks of my lady mother, what does he think of me really?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a bit of angst to keep things interesting, no?
> 
> I know some of you don't like Joanna being all pragmatic and difficult, but bear with me for a bit longer. Things have to get worse before they get better. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has subscribed, bookmarked, commented and left kudos for this story! Every time I get an email from ao3, it makes me really happy. I've been blocked for several weeks now, but two days ago I got back in stride. I got a really long comment that was very encouraging so I sat down to brainstorm with my beta NarcissisticWriter how to write the scene that was giving me trouble. She, by the way, is amazing and very good with historical stuff. So really, thank you to everyone who reads this story. I still can't believe that people read what I write and like it. That means a lot to me.


	7. vii. rising sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry in advance.

Years as the Bastard of Winterfell taught Joanna to accept hard truths and adapt accordingly.

The more she tells herself to forget Aegon, the more she misses him, and consequently, the more difficult it is to keep herself from getting dragged into Ghost’s mind. That does not mean she does not have a choice in spending time with the man, however. Where before she sought him out knowing sleep would take her once she saw him, now she tires herself out hunting and running along the outskirts of the Golden Company’s camp outside Volon Therys.

Aegon, as far as she can tell, is perplexed by Ghost’s sudden change in attitude, but other than trying to tempt her with steak, he can do nothing. In Pentos, Aegon had made more than passing mention of how strange he thought the relationship between Ghost and Joanna. She had thought it silly of him back then, the way he figured Ghost’s moods reflected Joanna’s, but he had ended up being right. Therefore, she is not surprised when, one day, Aegon conveniently blocks the pavilion’s exit with his body, then asks, “Is there something wrong, Ghost? Is Joanna… well? Did something…?” Joanna pays him no mind, nudging him gently aside. He looks hurt but shifts to let her through. His hand caresses Ghost’s back as she parts the tent flap, but it does not dissuade her from leaving him behind. Joanna lets herself get lost within Ghost, within the thrum of the hunt and the tart taste of their prey’s blood, filling her mouth to strip away the memory of disappointment and betrayal.

In the morning, she finally stuffs the dozen silly Martell handkerchiefs she made Aegon into a small chest. Nothing would have pleased her more than to burn them, but she knows exactly in what order she made each of them, and her slow progress in a skill Lady Stark had so long denied her in Winterfell always reminds her of how far she has come since leaving home. Joanna has so little to take pride in, so she keeps them, albeit out of her sight. _Someday I’ll be able to look at them and not think of Aegon at all._

Daenerys finds her silks in black and white. Joanna makes Daenerys a shift with a dragon in flight embroidered in silver across its back, the tail winding around in an arc around the front, and the teary, delighted smile Daenerys gives her for it makes Joanna’s heart warm. The white silk she stares at until she decides to make Arya dresses even if she is dead, stitching direwolves into the fabric until her fingers cramp, still mourning the sister that had been her dearest companion at one time.

 _When I wed, I’ll have a daughter that looks like us. She’ll carry a sword at her hip even if her father doesn’t like it,_ Joanna swears to herself. _She’ll marry who she wants like her grandmother but she won’t die in the birthing bed like her. She’ll live a long life. I’ll name her after you, Arya, and I’ll have another daughter and name her Lyanna for the mother that would have loved me. I’ll have two boys and name them after my fathers. I’ll tell them stories of all of you. I won’t forget._

“Stop.” Daenerys places her hand over one of Joanna’s. She plucks the needle with her other. “Stop. Whatever it is that’s torturing you, you’ll be better served turning it against our enemies. If it’s grief, turn it into anger. If it’s anger, use it to think of ways to destroy the Lannisters. Don’t torture yourself.”

 _Cersei would love to see me now,_ Joanna thinks, but she is at a loss of what to do to. _I can sew a dragon on silk, but I can’t stitch myself back together._

* * *

The boy in front of Joanna is short, dark-skinned and built like a wall. He is not handsome, but she sees echoes of Aegon in his face. They share the same high-forehead, but his is more pronounced than Aegon’s. Both their jaws are square, but whereas it adds character to Aegon’s otherwise elegant face, it looks awkward on the boy. It is as if his features are too big and too strong for his face, like he has not grown into them and never will.

 _He’s older than I,_ Joanna thinks. _He’s older than Aegon._ Then she wonders if this is how Daenerys felt upon first meeting Joanna. _Does Quentyn Martell hide steel beneath his air of simplicity? Or has his father sent him here as a lamb for the slaughter?_

“My lady,” Quentyn starts.

“Your Grace,” Joanna corrects without preamble. Daenerys always insists on having people address them with their proper titles. She can see why: their names and titles were what kept Viserys and Daenerys alive in the Free Cities when they ran out of money, and there _is_ something to be said about reminding people whose blood is bluer, as far as negotiations are concerned. It makes most apprehensive, at the very least.

Quentyn flinches, but Joanna hardly notices. “Your Grace,” he amends, placing his hands safely behind his back, “will it be your claim you press?”

“My claim?” she asks, distracted. _Aegon would stand closer—not close enough to threaten, but he wouldn’t let me think he was standing on ceremony. He would have come into this an equal, not a supplicant. He would have strolled in and kissed my hand if he had come with a marriage proposal. He would—_

“For the Iron Throne.”

“Oh,” Joanna says, his words having jolted her from her thoughts. _Stop thinking about Aegon._ “I’m my father’s trueborn daughter. My claim is stronger than my aunt’s.” She must answer without answering. No one must know about Aegon until the dragons reach Volon Therys; Daenerys and Joanna agreed.

 _And Quentyn should not know about me either, but we can hardly hide it with the way Rhaegal follows me._ Drogon does not do the same for Daenerys, and Joanna is sure neither will Viserion for Aegon. Joanna’s skinchanging had brought about a deeper connection between rider and dragon than had ever been seen. _I can’t move with Rhaegal like I can with Ghost, but I can feel him and he, me._

“I bring you Dorne, Your Grace. Fifty-thousand spears for you to command,” Quentyn tells her, only the slightest bit impassioned. _Fifty-thousand spears that will rise for Aegon anyway_ , Joanna thinks unkindly, but lets him finish. “The marriage pact w—” _I take it back, there’ll be no listening to him._ Joanna does not want to hear one more word about the insipid marriage pact.

“Was signed on Viserys’ stead, and he’s dead.”

“It’s customary for siblings to honor—”

“I was raised in the North. I know what’s customary,” Joanna reminds him. “Daenerys is Viserys’ sister.”

“But the Queen—”

“She’s _khaleesi._ I’m the Queen.” _Until the ruse is over, sadly._ Joanna is not sure she would be a good queen, but she is certain whichever vapid bride Magister Illyrio throws on Aegon’s bed will fare worse than Joanna herself would have.

Quentyn flounders. “Princess Daenerys is barren.” Yet another thing he should not know but does due to the fact that Daenerys had realized that her inability to have children would be the only thing that would save her from being sold like a broodmare. Joanna cannot find it in herself to resent her. Daenerys desperately wants a child to love, but with that door shut to her, an arranged marriage would do nothing but make her unhappy. _She can be my children’s second mother. They can be her children as well._ Joanna loves Daenerys in a way she has never loved anyone before, not even Aegon. There is an understanding between them, a bond that feels older than the few moons they have known each other. _She’s my family._ “Therefore—”

 “That’s unfortunate for you.” _Aegon would never have let anyone speak to him like this,_ Joanna thinks despite herself. _He would have known what to say._ When she sees Quentyn is about to protest, she loses all her patience. “Tell me, Prince Quentyn, do you think your father would have sent you to us if we didn’t have dragons or an army? Do you think he would have honored the treaty? Or would he have pretended it never happened, like he pretended when Viserys came of age and didn’t send for him so that he married your sister? We have no reason to honor this agreement you bring us, for the Dornish broke it first.”

Quentyn says nothing at all. He simply looks at her with wide eyes, and Joanna feels half sick. _Aegon would say that the Targaryens broke faith with House Martell first. He’d remind me of Elia. He’d tell me I’m the proof of that slight. He’d tell me I’m a mistake, that I should have never been born. He’d tell me I should have died instead of his true sister, wouldn’t he? That’s what he thinks, that’s what he’s always thought, the cheating, filthy liar._

“Your Grace, Dorne desires vengeance. Fire and—”

“Blood, yes.” _You’ll find I know my own house words._ “You shall have it, Prince Quentyn. You only need wait.”

_And keep your cock to your bloody self like your stupid cousin should have done._

* * *

Back in Pentos, Aegon originally came across as a shy boy desperately yearning for her company, stubborn in his quest to make her thaw, which in turn revealed him to be cocky. In an unflattering contrast, Quentyn comes across as shy but desperate with it, as if his honor depends on their courtship.

_It probably does._

The more he grovels, the more her temper flares. It is unfair to compare him to Aegon, but it is impossible not to. It is not that they look or act alike, but Joanna cannot help but latch onto every similarity she finds, however small. When she looks at Quentyn, her eyes zero in on the line of his jaw, and every time it pulls her back in time to when she spent a heady night in Pentos kissing a path down its slope, for he and Aegon have the same jaw. When he brings her flowers, she looks at the wilted little things that he scrounges up from somewhere along the demon road with antipathy, her mind supplying images of the delicate, pink snapdragons Aegon gifted her with to coax a laugh out of her. When he wears the Martell sigil on his person, she wants to cry at how many accursed handkerchiefs she made his cousin before she remembered that _of course_ he would resent her for the way their father treated his mother; _of course_ he would think badly of Joanna’s family; _of course_ he would despise her existence, despite being attracted to her.

_It’s no wonder I can’t stand Quentyn. It says little of him and much about me._

Joanna hates the sight of this boy who thinks he can steal her heart, as if it is not enough that his cousin already has. _How many times did I tell myself I should push Aegon away? How many times did I tell myself to leave him be? Why didn’t I run when I first met him? I’m as much a fool as I thought him to be._ All this time without him and he can hurt her from so many leagues away. It is as though there is a path to her heart, easily found, but Aegon had been the first to walk it before anyone had known it was worth anything. Now other men struggle to make their way to her, stumbling on the indents of Aegon’s footsteps, all of which are too big to fill and too numerous to avoid. _Empty promises and a night of shame, that’s all he gave me. I should have torn every petal off his stupid snapdragons._

“So you _didn’t_ kill Joffrey Baratheon?” Joanna hears one night upon going to sleep, Ghost’s more sensitive ears picking up Aegon’s whisper in the stillness of his tent.

“Oh, he wasn’t a Baratheon,” Tyrion says cryptically. “But regardless of what he was, I didn’t kill him. He was a monster, a tragedy of a person, but in those last moments of his, he looked so scared, so much like Jaime, but Jaime was always brave and strong. Jaime was never scared, not when there was a sword in his hand.” Tyrion smiles. “There’s always a sword in his hand, though. He’s the true Kingslayer, after all.”

Aegon narrows his eyes at Tyrion. “You sound too fond of a brother who didn’t even stand for you in trial by battle.”

Tyrion’s smile falls. “He was going to. Lord Tywin was furious, of course, and Cersei even more so. I don’t know which one of them did it, but someone poisoned Jaime for the day of the fight. I could either admit my guilt or fall back on a conventional trial, but did that do me any good?” He shakes his head. “A trial presided over by my own lord father. I was sentenced before the first word was spoken in truth. But Jaime was still sick, and he couldn’t—”

“Ghost,” Aegon says, finally noticing her. On four feet, Joanna makes to leave, but he presents her with a platter made out of solid gold, a large piece of steak in the center. “You don’t have to go hunt, boy. Here.” He looks smug as a Lannister when, unwillingly, Ghost drags her forward and digs in.

Tyrion grunts. “See, he was going to leave. Even the wolf has better sense than you.”

Aegon’s easy demeanor slides right off him. “Why are you here?” he snarls. The barbs shared between the two is a marked contrast to the quiet, intense conversation from less than a minute ago, and Joanna pauses, Ghost’s head cocking to the side, then the girl decides that Aegon’s peculiar relationship with Tyrion is not her business. Aegon’s relationships with anyone are not Joanna’s business at all.

“Connington doesn’t let me walk around without a guard, if you must know, my prince. You’re better company, poor though said company is.” He shrugs his deformed shoulders. “Besides, it’s not like there’s much to do in this blasted camp. Now, were we closer to the town… That fake father of yours should have let me go out into the city when we docked in Selhorys, have myself a whore or two. Have _you_ ever had a whore, boy?”

 _Oh yes, he has,_ Joanna thinks, certain, but Aegon does not deign Tyrion’s question with an answer. “You haven’t earned Jon’s trust yet. He can be prickly sometimes but he’s been fair to you.”

“And what should I do to earn his trust, exactly? Fight a stone man?” Tyrion asks sourly.

Aegon’s eyes turn hard. “Don’t jest about what happened on the Rhoyne, Lannister. We could have died.” He extends out a hand, running his fingers over Ghost’s fur, seeking comfort. Joanna feels cold and upset, unsure of what to do. “The stone men were being really loud that day on the bridge. They might have attacked us.”

Aegon spent all his life either on Illyrio’s manse—which he despises—or sailing around the world—which he likes, except when it comes to sailing the Rhoyne. Joanna has never seen Chroyane, but the way Aegon described it to her, as a place of fallen splendor, as a place of hate and destruction, as a place he was simply not _welcome_ in by virtue of his Valyrian blood, Joanna has no wish to see it. He loathes it, and despite what he says, Joanna knows he is scared of it.

Joanna moves closer, intent on soothing him, when she remembers Aegon’s words about her family, about her mother, and a deep, searing anger fills her. She wakes on her furs shaking, furious and upset, mad at herself for the stupid, weak way she wants to ease Aegon’s hurts when he would no doubt trade her life for someone else’s.

She goes to Rhaegal and chains herself to the saddle before she knows what she is doing, but even the feel of the wind on her skin, the heat of her dragon under her is not enough to calm her. Joanna feels like she is drowning in emotion.

“Quentyn,” she finally says hours later, still trying to forget Aegon’s hurt look. _What_ she means to forget is beyond her. She does not know whether she wants to forget she ever heard him call her lady mother a temptress or if she simply wants to forget her love for him. Joanna decides that it is neither; that what she truly needs is to forget Aegon himself. That might give her some measure of peace.

“Your Grace,” Quentyn says, surprised to have her storming into his tent.

“Joanna,” she says, slipping underneath his furs to his great shock. “For tonight, I’m Joanna.” _And you’ll be my knight. You’ll make me forget._ Quentyn seems to be completely incapable of any grace where courtship is concerned, but Joanna knows what she likes. _If he doesn’t know how to touch me, I’ll teach him. I’m not a ruin. I’m not a broken thing that’ll forever love a liar. There are other men._

She expects him to protest for the sake of propriety, but he does not. Joanna does not let herself wonder why that is. Instead, she settles her mouth over his, running her tongue against his lips, making him groan, allowing her to slip inside. He has obviously never been kissed before. _Did Aegon feel like this when he taught me how to kiss?_ Joanna feels… powerful, in control, but also underwhelmed. _It’s not particularly pleasant._

Quentyn is a quick learner, though. It surprises her how fast he turns the tables on her, flicking his tongue over the roof of her mouth in a very distinctive way that Aegon, in Pentos, quickly discovered made her melt. _Stop thinking about him, stop it now,_ Joanna half-screams inside her head, yet she cannot. When she finds herself on her back with Quentyn on top of her, he has his hands firmly on either side of her head even though she can feel him insistently against her thigh. _Aegon would have had his hands on me. Aegon would have—_

And suddenly she is crying.

“Your Grace?” Quentyn jerks back, sounding horrified. She cannot see his face in the darkness. He probably cannot see hers either, and she is glad for that.

“Didn’t I t-tell you, it’s Jo-oanna ton-ni-ight?” she gets out through her sobs. _Or Jo. Jo is fine as well,_ she thinks desperately.

Quentyn sits up, but he still straddles her. Joanna lies on his mattress, looking up at the fabric of Quentyn’s pavilion. She wishes, for a moment, to have the strength to tear the tent apart. _Maybe if I see the stars, I’ll be able to breathe. Maybe then I’ll feel better._ The smell of leather and salt surrounds her, heady. Aegon’s tent smells like licorice and sage, cinnamon and ginger. Joanna wishes to be there, not here. _I’m such a fool._

“I—” He pushes her away when she reaches out for him. Joanna lets her hand fall, her tears fading with such speed it would have alarmed her had she not been feeling so _cold._ “Are you… well, Your Grace?”

“Forgive me,” Joanna says, her voice flat. “I wasn’t myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still sorry, and I want to reassure everyone: this will **NOT** be a love triangle. I think people got the idea that when Joanna went "he has no obligations to me, I have no obligations to him" last chapter, she was putting herself down. But that line was actually there as my _disclaimer._ Joanna isn't cheating (but as you can see, nothing much happened anyway). Sidenote: I also want to reassure everyone that Joanna will get more confident as the story progresses. She is dealing with a lifetime of traumas, some recent and some not, and that takes time to get over.
> 
> Many thanks to Sacaly_Amroma, who pointed out that no, the fact that the Shy Maid didn't get attacked by stone men and its repercussions (Jorah didn't kidnap Tyrion, no Jon suffering from greyscale) are not obvious. Thanks also to my beta NarcissisticWriter, who _then_ pointed out that I probably have show-only readers who may be really lost. To compensate, I added the warg scene this chapter. The moral of the story here is that if you don't understand something, you should mention it because it might end up in the story when it otherwise wouldn't.
> 
> And I'd like to apologize to my lovely beta, who hasn't gone over the warg scene because I'm very shaky and I need to post this _now,_ I have no idea why, but it has to happen or I won't be able to sleep. I think I might be getting sick. Anyway, please comment and give me encouragement, it makes me happy and gets you faster updates.


	8. viii. return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter you've all been waiting for.

Joanna avoids Quentyn and Quentyn avoids her. She catches him looking at her sometimes, but otherwise, his desire to court and wed her is seemingly gone—not that she blames him, with the way she cried. Daenerys is confused by the sudden change but does not comment on it. What she does comment on is Joanna’s newfound impassiveness. _Starks are made of ice,_ Joanna reminds herself often. _Before I travelled to King’s Landing, I was as cold as the North and not even Lady Stark could boast such a thing. I can be cold again._

In the fortnight before they reach Volantis, Joanna stops slipping into Ghost altogether. She stays up long into the night, helping Daenerys control her unruly khalasar, which consists of twenty-thousand riders and twice as many freed slaves, beaten and terrified of their previous masters. The Dothraki are wild, set in their ways, and perhaps that would not have been a problem, had their ways not included rampant pillaging, murder and rape. Every night, Daenerys and Joanna have at least five men executed for inexcusable crimes, and the khalasar grows ever more terrified and unhappy.

“You should have left them to their own devices,” Joanna complains one day in High Valyrian—to avoid being overheard.

“If I had, all the blood they’d have gone on to spill would have been on my hands. I couldn’t.”

“What they do is their responsibility, Dany, not yours. What do you think the lords of the Seven Kingdoms will say when they see us bring Dothraki savages to conquer their lands?” Joanna throws her hands in the air in sheer frustration. She knows how fickle lords are; how they hate outsiders. A horde of pillaging savages is the last thing the Targaryen campaign needs.

Daenerys touches her fingers to the sides of her head, as if to ease a headache. “I don’t know. I don’t know, but what’s done is done. I can’t…”

“You can,” Joanna says.

Daenerys snaps her eyes open to glare at Joanna, who takes a step back, shocked by how angry she is. “I can’t, and even if I could, I wouldn’t. These are my people. I left my children in Meereen to the Masters’ mercy, I turned away, and their screams haunt me day and night. I can’t do it again. I can’t let this khalasar go and cause more pain.”

Joanna balls her fists at her sides and says nothing, but that night the executions grow more numerous. Twenty-thousand riders turn into nineteen-thousand, nineteen-thousand turn into eighteen thousand and so on, until Daenerys’ khalasar is overrun by children and women, sixteen-thousand riders recoiling in fear and awe as Daenerys makes her way through their camp. Joanna only hopes that the blood will bread fear, will stand the test of being forced into a different, far more constraining culture. _Or they_ _’ll die. The lords won’t stand for them settling in their lands otherwise._

Joanna can hope.

“We should take Volantis,” Daenerys insists when they are about a day’s march from the gates. “It would take so little. We’d have enough to pay for ships and then some.”

 _Ships,_ Joanna thinks with irritation. Ships are the reason the two of them are here so late in the game, still marching on this damnably long road. There had been no ships or wood in Meereen, and so Joanna and Daenerys were forced to march their army west instead of sail.

The prospect of sacking Volantis—where all the maesters who _burnt_ the Meereenese ships are cowering in fear of them and their dragons—is appealing, but

Joanna shakes her head. “The Golden Company has hired all the ships we’ll need. Jon agreed we’d make no move against the Volantenes to make up for their being stationed outside Volon Therys while they wait for us.” She learned that the day before, when she sat in on a meeting of Jon’s as Ghost, who enjoys the large cuts of steak Jon supplies him with.

“The Golden Company,” Daenerys echoes. “One time Viserys feasted their captains to rally them to our cause, but they only laughed at him. What did my dearest nephew offer them?” Daenerys always refers to Aegon as her _dearest nephew,_ the words uttered from behind a sneer.

“Illyrio and Varys convinced them Aegon is a Blackfyre pretending to be a Targaryen. How, I don’t know, but I hope their mummer’s show lasts until after we’ve conquered the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daenerys huffs. “And how do you know he’s _not_ a Blackfyre?”

 _Quentyn,_ Joanna thinks. _It’s written all over their faces, their Rhoynish blood._

* * *

Jon helps her off Rhaegal’s back when she lands. He crushes her into a hug when her sandaled feet safely touch the ground. “I was afraid something happened to you, but gods be good, you’re here in one piece and with a dragon besides.”

Joanna wraps her arms around Jon. “Dany named him Rhaegal after… Father.” It feels almost like a betrayal, to call Rhaegar Targaryen her father, and yet that is what he _is._ Ser Barristan made it a point to regale her with tales of his melancholic erstwhile prince, and it had made her feel both uncomfortable and elated, to finally have it confirmed that her oft-criticized surliness came from her mystery parent. Eddard Stark raised her as his and people assumed she took after him, but the petulant brooding was there from birth, conveniently disguised by the stigma of her bastardry and Ned Stark’s own character.

Jon, who had up until this point been ignoring her dragon—quite a feat, really—glances at Rhaegal. “It was your grandfather who dreamed of being reborn as a dragon. He wanted to burn his enemies to ashes but… Rhaegar was the power behind House Targaryen. The men fought for him, not for Aerys. It’s a worthy name for his daughter’s mount.” He gives her a proud look.

Joanna gives him a small smile, lapping up the praise. Jon is not a very affectionate man, but Joanna knows he tries for her. He seems to have taken it upon himself to be as supportive a father as Lord Stark—who, despite being busy, had always made time for Joanna. “Thank you, Jon.” Then she turns her attention to Ghost, so much bigger than the last time she saw him in person. She kisses his nose. “The past few moons have agreed with you, haven’t they, boy?”

Jon shifts on his feet. “He’s been acting strangely lately. Aegon thought—”

“Ghost is doing perfectly well,” Joanna says sharply, her mood plummeting. _And so am I._

Jon eyes her with disapproval, but he wisely decides not to chide her on her surliness. “If you’re sure.” Jon hesitates, looking back at the crowd of sellswords standing behind him, yards away, staring at Rhaegal in awe and fear. “I’ll get you a horse to ride. You shouldn’t make an entrance on foot.”

“I made an entrance on a dragon and a direwolf walks besides me, Jon. I’ve impressed them enough. Any more and they’ll faint.” The men do not faint when she approaches, but they do part for her and kneel, calling her _Your Grace_ and _My Queen_ and _Mother of Dragons,_ eyes bright for the woman who will take them home. _They think I’m Daenerys._ “You haven’t told them about Aegon,” Joanna mutters to Jon as he leads her through the camp. All around her, men continue lining up to her sides, whispering and kneeling.

“We were waiting for Daenerys and yourself.”

“And where is he?” she asks warily, dismissing the other line of thought. “Aegon.”

“When he heard you were close he rode out to meet you.” Jon sighs. “We didn’t think you’d fly ahead.”

Joanna nods. In truth, she expected Jon, Aegon and the captains of the Golden Company to ride out to meet Daenerys’ incoming army, so she had flown ahead to avoid them all. It surprises her that Jon stayed, but he is not an unwelcome sight.

Neither is Tyrion, for all that she feels a flash of anger upon clapping eyes on him.

She stops in her tracks. “Lord Tyrion.”

“It’s Lord Lannister now.” He bows, spilling some of the wine in his cup. Of course Tyrion would drink when it is barely past noon. “The Rock is mine by rights. My lord father is dead.”

 _You’d know. You killed him yourself._ Joanna gathered that much from hearing the whispers around Tyrion when she became Ghost. Had she been around upon his arrival, she would have made sure to deny such a thing, even if it is the truth. _It’ll cost us dearly when we make for Casterly Rock._ “And I’m Joanna Targaryen,” she says loudly. _I’m not your savior,_ she wants to tell the sellswords.

“A Targaryen.” Tyrion clucks his tongue. “I should have known. It all makes an infuriating amount of sense now.”

“What does?” she asks. _Does he mean Aegon’s desire to marry me? Why Varys saved me and not Sansa? Why Ned Stark shamed his wife by raising a bastard as trueborn as he could get away with?_

“Oh, everything.”

Joanna gives him a brittle smile.

“Your Grace,” Jon says. “I’ll show you to your pavilion. Then I can update you on—”

“My family?” Joanna says hopefully.

Jon nods and leads her to a blood red tent, grand and spacious, where a sturdy table is already set with fruit, bread and cheese. Joanna sits and helps herself to a cluster of grapes. “I’ve heard some things. I know about the Lannister-Tyrell alliance and that Tyrion Lannister killed his father and married Sansa. And yes, I also know she married Willas Tyrell afterwards. Have there been any news of Robb?” She hesitates, at once fearful and painfully hopeful. “My… my sister Arya?” She almost does not ask, but she has to. There is a stubborn tendril of hope clinging on to her heart, and Joanna does not know if she wants to stomp on it or let it blossom. _She needs to be alive._

“That’s odd, that news of Sansa Stark’s weddings reached you.” Jon frowns.

Joanna does not volunteer her methods. She has no doubt that she will explain to him what skinchanging is, but for now she wants news. “Arya?” she prompts.

“Alive,” Jon says shortly, and Joanna’s heart soars for the second before he adds, “The crippled boy is dead.”

“Bran?” she gasps out. In truth, she had not given Bran much thought since their father was beheaded. Joanna was busy worrying over Robb and Sansa and _Arya._ Bran and Rickon, in Winterfell, had felt safe to her. “No, no! How?”

“Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell for the Ironborn. At the time, it was believed that he burnt Brandon and Rickon Stark, but once Robb Stark took back the castle, the youngest boy returned. Brandon must have perished in the wild.” Jon takes her hand, squeezes. “He was a cripple. I’m sorry, Joanna.”

Joanna hates the way he speaks of Bran, but she swallows down her anger. Jon is only trying to comfort her. “I want Theon dead.” She remembers the handsome boy who stole her first kiss under Winterfell’s heart tree. _How silly it all seems now._

“Robb Stark beheaded him.”

That does not make her feel better. “And Robb? Is he doing well? Jon?” she presses when he remains silent.

“He was doing very well. He married a Frey a few moons ago, and even after the Ironborn invasion, he was handling himself… adequately.”

“But?”

“A wildling army broke through the Wall and raided the North. Information has been difficult to come by since.” Jon sighs. “He used to have control over more than half the Seven Kingdoms, but we know he left the Riverlands to their own devices. The Vale, which declared for him after Arya Stark married Robert Arryn, has made no move to aid him. I know no more than this.”

Joanna’s eyes are wide. She knows, realistically, that her first thought should go towards the wildling invasion, but that is not what has shocked her to the core and filled her with dread. “Arya got _married?”_

Jon looks uncomfortable. “You were close, Your Grace?”

“Close?” Joanna buries her head in her hands. “I was… We were…” As if from a distance, she hears Jon rise from his chair. “We were close, yes.” _She didn’t want to get married,_ Joanna thinks. _They shouldn’t have forced her. I should have been there._ Joanna thinks of her own mother, and she is filled with dread.

She feels Jon’s hand on her shoulder. “Joanna, I’m sorry.”

It is Joanna who is sorry, but she turns around to hug him anyway. In his arms, she almost feels the cold bite of winter on her skin, Ned Stark’s warm hands smoothing down her windblown hair, Arya’s wild laughter floating around her. In that moment she forgets everything else, the echo of her childhood drowning out all the confusion and anger inside Joanna, thrumming just underneath her skin, fire made flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or not.
> 
> But hey, at least you got answers to what has been going on in the 7K! I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I've been dealing with emotional and health issues so this story is the last thing on my mind. Writing often makes me feel better, and I promise, I'm really trying. Thanks a lot for all the comments the last chapter received. I always appreciate feedback and I'm happy to know people enjoy the story.


	9. ix. liars

Aegon’s hair is silver gold now, the same color as Daenerys’. The braziers’ light turns it a soft, pastel orange when it glances off it. Outside Joanna’s pavilion, there is darkness. She had not even heard he was back before he stalked his way inside.

“You were gone for close to a year,” is the first thing he says to her. He does not come up to her and kiss her. He does not sweep her off her feet and twirl her. He does not grab her and push her down on the mattress.

Aegon just looks angry.

Joanna shifts her eyes back onto the scroll in her hand. They are from one of Varys’ little birds, a woman calling herself Mysaria, acting as a mistress to one of Stannis Baratheon’s men. “I returned as fast as I could.” Joanna shrugs, standing up and pouring herself a cup of persimmon wine. She needs something strong to get through _this_ conversation. “But now here we are: an army, three dragons and two girls.” _Neither of whom you can marry._ It is not her place to tell him of Daenerys’ barrenness, though. _Either Daenerys will tell him or he’ll find out through word-of-mouth_. It does not matter to Joanna.

“I thought you were dead.” His voice is toneless, devoid of all inflection of emotion for all that his teeth grind together.

“I’m sorry.” Joanna means it, too. She did not foresee he would worry about her. The past is the past, though, so she brushes it off. “Now that we have dragons, individual travel will be faster, and since we have ravens back home, not hearing from each other for moons will hopefully be a thing of the past.”

Aegon does not react for the longest time. “So that’s it?”

Joanna frowns. “I don’t understand. Is there something else you’d like me to say?” She wants him to leave.

“Today, at dawn, I rode out hoping to find you, to finally see you, but I didn’t find you. You weren’t there, and all I found was a cousin who didn’t know about me and a vile bitch of an aunt who thinks I’m a Blackfyre. Do you truly have nothing to say to me?” His violet eyes flash with anger. “Never mind an apology, you could start by telling me you missed me, perhaps. You could ask me what I’ve been doing this past year as well. Or you could even just come closer and greet me like a lover would. Then again, that might be too much to ask of you.”

Joanna takes a sip of her wine. She does not move. “You’re not my lover, Aegon. We were together the one time, and I do recall telling you,” she says, her own anger flaring even as her voice lowers, “to keep your cock to yourself.” Last time she said that, she wanted to get a reaction out of him, but not today. No, today the words are an accusation. Oh, she had wanted him, she had, but it was Aegon who took the initiative. He should have known better than to act, just like she should have known better than to let him seduce her.

“You’re going to be my wife!” Aegon protests.

She resists the urge to shake him. “No, Aegon, I’m not. You’re going to be the King, I shouldn’t have to explain these things to you, but the Golden Company and Daenerys’ Unsullied won’t be enough to win you the throne. You’re going to need allies, and you get allies by wedding them.” Hopefully, though, Illyrio and Varys will decide that marrying Joanna off to a petty lord rather than a trout will be best. _Anything but that, please._ Joanna does not want to wake up one day and hate the sight of her daughter because she looks like Lady Stark.

“Your brother is still alive. He’ll support—”

“The grandson of the madman who executed his grandfather?”

There is silence. “Joanna,” he says slowly, as if he is talking to a particularly trying child. “You’re a Targaryen. You can’t be overheard speaking of our grandfather that way.”

“In what way?” She shrugs in a way she knows he finds infuriating, purposely flippant. “I’ve said nothing but the truth. You might find the rebels that fought for Robert Baratheon will be much more open to siding with us if you decry the murder of the Starks. You should follow _my_ example.” Joanna raises her goblet to take a sip, but Aegon snatches it from her hand before the metal so much as touches her lips. He sets it down on the table by his side.

“Are you drunk?”

“That’s my first cup,” Joanna tells him stiffly. _Not everyone who disagrees with you is drunk. I’m not Tyrion._ But Joanna cannot deny that she likes to drink, likes the way a goblet feels in her hand. _Cersei always looked like a queen when she drank._ Joanna thinks of it as a shield.

To his credit, Aegon does not push the issue. Then he says, “The Starks weren’t murdered. Dozens of courtiers overheard Brandon Stark screaming for our father to ‘come out and die.’ That was _treason.”_

Joanna blinks at him. “Treason? He thought his sister had been stolen—”

Aegon sighs, exasperated. “Why are we talking about this? Robert’s Rebellion is in the past. The Usurper is dead. We have three dragons with which to take back our kingdom. Let it rest, Joanna.”

“No,” she snaps. “You can make an argument for my uncle, I’ll grant you that much, but Rickard Stark was burnt alive when he asked for a trial by combat for his son. There was nothing right about that. The Rebellion didn’t happen because Brandon Stark’s stupid sister ran away with a married man. It didn’t happen because she was an overly ambitious temptress, as you seem to think. It happened because the Mad King was—I know this must come as a surprise to you, but just bear with me—mad! He was a monster.” _I don’t want to be a monster,_ Joanna thinks. _I don’t want to be like him. His blood shouldn’t run in my veins._ “He murdered people!”

Aegon does not pretend to misunderstand. “You’ve been talking to Tyrion,” he says darkly, reaching for her. “You can’t possibly believe him over me. I didn’t…”

“I haven’t said more than ten words to him since I arrived, but I should have. Tyrion knows more about dragons than anyone else I can think of. We need him.” Joanna makes to leave the pavilion— _her_ pavilion, but she can tell Aegon will not see reason, and so she thinks it will be better to walk away. Suddenly, she feels the heat of Aegon’s body behind her, feels his hands on her hips. _When did he move?_ Aegon turns her around to face him. “I have to go,” she tells him. His eyes look truly violet now that his hair is gold, not blue. She looked into those eyes as she lost her maidenhead. _They’re such beautiful eyes,_ she thinks dumbly.

“You’re running away from me.”

_That’s true._ It surprises her that he sees it.

When she says nothing, just looks down at his chest, he asks, “Why?”

Joanna places her palms on his chest, pushing against him with the merest touch. She does not mean to break his hold and she does not. It feels like too much, to have him so close. _How much do I tell him?_ “There are so many reasons, I can’t count them all. What you want… the gods know why you want _me,_ but it’s impossible. What we did was wrong. I enjoyed… what happened between us,” Joanna says, unwilling to even say the _what_ out loud, “but it shouldn’t have ever happened. One day very soon, I’m going to marry and my future husband will _know.”_ And he will most likely shrug and not mind because what else could have been expected from a child conceived in scandal like Joanna? From a child raised a bastard? What men will want from her is her dragon, her _blood;_ not her innocence.

And that should make her feel better, not worse, and yet Joanna feels wretched. She feels dirty, like she has proven Lady Stark right by laying with Aegon. _Wanton and lewd,_ Lady Stark would call her, Joanna knows.

Aegon hugs her close. She can hear his heartbeat through his dusty silks. He is so much taller than her that he can comfortably stand with her like this, with his chin resting on the top of her head. “You’re not listening to me,” he whispers. “Daenerys is here now. The _dragons_ are here now. We’ll wed as soon as we land back home. You may think I’m being childish all you want, but I _will_ marry you, Jo.”

What sweet words. _I want to be Queen,_ Joanna thinks forlornly. _This is hopeless._ Joanna balls her hand into a fist, pulling at his doublet. “And what if I don’t want to?” She must protect his crown, their lives. It falls to her, for Aegon appears completely incapable of helping himself. Her insistence is not self-sacrificing in the least. If Aegon dies, their conquest is more than likely doomed, and that spells death for not only Aegon, but Joanna and Daenerys as well.

“Liar.”

“Don’t call _me_ a liar.” She pushes him away. Hard. “You make me so many promises, you whisper such sweet words in my ears, but how can you love me when you think so badly of my family? When you think my mother such a deceitful whore? _Why_ do you love me? I don’t understand, Aegon!” Joanna scoffs. “All this time I thought you didn’t care about how I was born, but you do! You care—”

“I don’t, gods, I don’t!” He raises her chin so that she looks into his eyes. They are so earnest. _A liar’s eyes must be earnest,_ Joanna thinks. “Whatever Tyrion has told you—”

Joanna is so tired, but his words only stoke her anger. “Tyrion has told me nothing. I was there.” At his look of confusion, she elaborates, “I can see through Ghost’s eyes sometimes. It’s called skinchanging. The gift runs in the Stark blood.” When he looks to be ready to needle her with questions, his eyes wide with wonder, she snaps, _“I was there.”_ She will not have him derail this conversation into a series of questions and answers about the how’s of skinchanging.

“Alright.” Aegon puts his hands on her shoulders, opening his mouth to say something, but then he shakes his head. She has the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to shake him off, but she resists. “You’re right, I don’t think well of the Starks. Your uncle raised you, but he also allowed a harpy of a woman to treat you like the scum of the world. I don’t care if she thought you were her husband’s bastard! What she’s done to you… You shouldn’t have been treated that way. Ned Stark shouldn’t have let her treat you that way. But that’s not all. Your uncle stood by and didn’t fight against Tywin Lannister when he heard of what he did to my lady mother and our sister.” Aegon cups her cheeks. “The kingdoms rose in rebellion against a king who burned a lord and that was murder, you say, but what about killing a child hiding underneath her father’s bed? The Usurper didn’t do it himself, but he didn’t simply look away either, no,” he says, furious, “he rewarded the Lannisters. He married one and kept another in his Kingsguard. Was our sister’s death not murder? My uncle Oberyn is dead, have they told you? _Have they?”_

“No,” Joanna says. “No one mentioned that.” After hearing of Bran’s death and Arya’s undoubtedly miserable marriage, she had been emotionally drained and asked Jon to give her time alone.

Aegon pulls her closer, touches their foreheads together. There is a feverish look in his eyes, and when he speaks, desperation and grief colors his voice. “He dueled the Mountain. He died avenging my mother and I. He’s dead and he never knew I was alive. Amory Lorch—the lowlife who murdered our sister—is dead as well, by your cousin Robb’s hand.” He chuckles. “Dorne shouldn’t have had to wait six-and-ten years for their vengeance. Had the Usurper been a just king, he would have executed the Mountain, Amory Lorch and Tywin Lannister himself for what he did, but Robert Baratheon didn’t. He _didn’t!_ That _bastard_ condoned murder when he won his throne and then ordered it himself. He sent knives after Daenerys when she was with child. Did she tell you that?” Aegon does not wait for a reply, but she reels under his words. Robert Baratheon looked at Joanna like a man should not ever look at a young girl, but he was not cruel to her. He saved Ghost, even if he had sentenced Lady to die. He did not seem like a man who would _do_ a thing such as Aegon describes. He shakes her. “This was the man your uncle fought beside, the man he sat on _our_ family’s throne. The rebellion, whatever caused it, replaced a brutal king with another brutal king.”

“The throne is yours,” Joanna hears herself say. Her horror has numbed her completely. _Daenerys’ babe,_ Joanna thinks. In her mind, she sees a boy with dark skin, Aegon’s face and Daenerys’ eyes. Rhaego, that is what Daenerys said she called her son. Joanna’s dragon and Daenerys’ son were both named after Joanna’s father, the same man Robert Baratheon killed.

“The throne is _ours,”_ Aegon says fiercely. “The throne will be our son’s. You’ll be my wife.”

“The throne is yours, I don’t argue that, but just because Father didn’t do something, it doesn’t mean it made him a horrible person. Had he pushed too much, I’d have been discovered and I—I would be dead. My uncle Brandon thought his sister stolen. My mother”— she sees his eyes harden in anger, but she pushes on anyway, for this needs to be said— “fell in love with a married man and ran away with him, but she was all of four-and-ten, a girl who would have had to marry Robert Baratheon if she did nothing. Your mother didn’t deserve to be replaced—”

“She wasn’t replaced,” Aegon hisses, angry at Joanna now, well and truly. “Lyanna Stark seduced Father but—”

“She _seduced_ him?” Joanna screeches. “She was _four-and-ten,_ or did you miss that? Who do you think seduced who? Our father married her because he wanted to. He took a second wife because he wanted to. No one forced him to do anything. With who was he during the entire war? Not in Dragonstone, not in King’s Landing, not with your _mother!”_

“Be quiet, Joanna.” Aegon steps away from her. “That’s enough.”

But she cannot stop. Joanna balls up her fists to prevent herself from launching herself at him. Her mouth is dry. Every beat of her heart pumps fire into her veins. “Enough? Be quiet? I see you don’t like it when I speak badly of your mother. Perhaps you should think on how you feel right now next time you call Lyanna Stark a stupid girl or the next time you contemplate how a girl of four-and-ten seduced a prince far older than her.”

“Be _quiet,”_ he bites out.

“No. No, no, no, no! I won’t. I’m not an ornament. I won’t be silent. I’m not here to warm your bed whenever you want. Listen to me! You love me? Then prove it. I don’t _believe_ you! Listen to me.”

“Prove it?” Aegon gives her a brief, humorless smile. He tugs her to him in one single, sudden movement, shocking her. “Come here, then. I’ll prove it as many times as it takes for you to believe it.” His fingers move over her chest, unbuttoning her vest. He kisses her, but she bites his lip.

“That’s not what I meant,” she snarls. “Listen to me. _Listen_ to me.” She is beyond angry, but suddenly, despite her words, she wants him. _I’m not a maid. What’s the harm in doing this again?_ Joanna pulls him closer.

Aegon breaks away. “I am, Jo.” He yanks her vest off her, then undoes his own doublet. “Now you listen to me.” He pushes their mouths together, and she remembers _Quentyn,_ remembers the flick of his tongue across the roof her mouth, oh so gentle. Aegon does not bother with gentle, not today, and she grabs at him like a drowning woman would gasp in air.

“How can you love me if you don’t listen to me? That’s what you said in Pentos, that you—”

Aegon does not let her finish. “I do. I love you. Has any woman ever been so _stubborn_ as you? You’re infuriating, Joanna.”

“Listen to me.” She rips at his tunic. He drags it over his head before pulling her closer, sliding his thigh between hers. Joanna goes ahead and uses it as leverage to climb onto him, wrapping her legs around him. Surprised, Aegon sways before he rights himself, all the sparring and training she envied paying off in a most unprecedented manner.

“I listen.” Aegon kisses a path down her chest. “I _listen,_ but half the time you say only half of what you mean as well.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” she snaps. He wraps one arm more securely around her as his other hand runs its way up her thigh to reach her waistband. Aegon unlaces her breeches with practiced fingers, but it is impossible to get them off her without letting her go.

The moment her bare feet touch the carpet, he peels her breeches down her legs, going so fast she can hardly keep up. “But you do.” Aegon kicks off his boots, drawing her closer with one hand around the back of her neck, intense as lightning, and then stops. His breathing is harsh against her cheek. “You never hesitate to think the worst of me, and I know that it’s because that’s what kept you strong all these years,” he says into her ear. Joanna goes still with shock. He kisses his way down the column of her throat, becoming gentle, heartbreakingly so, and Joanna can feel her heart trying to jolt itself out of her chest. “But you’re no longer alone. You have m—”

She scratches her nails down his back, warm blood welling to the surface, and the spell is broken. Aegon’s head snaps up, his neck arching as a gasp tears itself from his throat. His skin is dusted with orange where it is kissed by the braziers’ fire, soft black where it is touched by the shadows, but although she cannot see him, he feels flawless and beautiful in the timeless moment before she reaches up and bites his neck—hard, viciously hard—angry at him for lying, angry at herself for believing him. She does not know if she wants to kill him or love him, but Aegon makes the choice for her when his hand slides into her smallclothes and makes her cry out.

He pushes her on the mattress, the weight of his body settling over her. Joanna thinks of Quentyn, of being in Quentyn’s tent and wanting to be in Aegon’s. This is not Aegon’s tent, but he is here, with her, and it is his body covering hers; it is his smell—leather, ginger and sage—she breathes in before he takes her mouth with his. Her hands scrabble for purchase, finally settling on his shoulders. She pulls him closer, shaking, her fingers plunging into his hair and tugging as he whispers her name. _Jo, Jo, Jo,_ he says, he curses, but by the time he pushes inside her it sounds almost like a prayer.

“Aegon,” she says against his neck, against the mark she made.

“Jo,” he answers, leaning down to whisper something in her ear, his deep voice settling like a veil over her skin. Joanna does not understand a thing that passes his lips in this heat. She feels like she is burning up from the inside out, and she is breathless, all her air stolen from her in short little gasps.

Joanna pushes herself up, forcing him to stop for the time it takes her to sit upright, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she looks at him, and she wishes she could see the expression on his face. “Don’t stop,” she says. He misunderstands, grabbing her hips and leading her up and down. Joanna has no frame of reference to compare this to, and in the back of her mind she wonders if another man would make her feel like this, so alive. Her hands tighten on his shoulders—a reflex; she feels like she is drowning in heat—before she nudges him down. “Don’t stop talking.”

Aegon keeps his hands where they are, his thumbs brushing up and down, up and down, and she is unwittingly reminded of the first time he touched her in a sexual way, when he told her the clothes she wore were once his. Today there are no clothes between them. There is nothing but air, and even that seems to not dare get in the way of the two.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmurs in Pentoshi—Aegon’s native tongue—his words sultry and almost tangible, like a second set of hands brushing along the length of her body. Joanna has shifted them from one end of the mattress to the other, closer to the fire, and now she can see his face, one side bathed in orange, the other touched by only a hint. His eyes are dark and deep, all consuming as she leans over him, shivering at the brand-like brush of his thumbs, the caress of his voice over her straining skin, the feel of him inside her suddenly too much to bear; everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... how many of you thought this was the way it would go down?
> 
> I'm pretty sure this will be the most explicit scene in Lost Girl. There might be another scene _very_ far in the future that compares, but I haven't decided.
> 
> Thanks for all the well wishes. I'm feeling a lot better! And thanks to my beta NarcissisticWriter, who got through this chapter really fast even though she's very busy. As always, please comment!


	10. x. middle ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe I'm not dead.

Aegon wakes up long past dawn, and by that point Joanna has already spoken with a maester and returned to her pavilion, doing her best to ignore all the stares she draws. It is probably because of her entrance yesterday, but a part of her cannot help but feel that everyone knows about what happened in her tent the night before.

_Were we quiet?_ She does not know, has no clue, and that probably means that the answer is _no._ Despite her fears, Joanna puts the matter out of her mind as she busies herself with a book on dragonlore until a groan disturbs her.

Aegon tries to get up, but hisses in pain when he moves.

“Turn on your front,” she says, kneeling on the mattress next to him.

He does so gingerly. “Gods, that didn’t hurt nearly as much last night.”

“Your maester gave me an ointment for it.” She twists the little pot the greying man gave her.

Aegon looks at her. “You’re dressed,” he accuses.

Joanna gives him a small smile. “I had to go get this,” she says, scooping a bit of the greenish goo and spreading it over the scratches she made the night before. Her smile drops. Joanna does not have a single mark on her body, but she hurt him the night before. It all seems so excessive now, in the light of day, and even though she remains upset over the words Aegon said to Tyrion moons ago, she is ashamed as well.

Aegon hisses and jerks, arching his back in a fruitless attempt to get away from her. “Gods, gods, _gods, no._ What is that? It stings!”

“It’s just to keep infection at bay.” She glances at his face, twisted in pain. “It can’t hurt that much, Aegon, you’re putting on a mummer’s show.”

At her words, he blushes. “Not so,” he whimpers, soldiering through his pitiful act.

Doubt fills her. “I’m sorry.” Joanna spreads the last of the ointment over his left shoulder, where there is a particularly deep scratch. “For the injuries… and what I said.”

Aegon sighs. “Alright, I’ve had bruises worse than this. I said a lot of things I didn’t mean as well.” Aegon sits up, letting the bedclothes fall to his hips. It strikes Joanna that they should not have this conversation while he is naked, but there is nothing to do for it now. “I don’t think your… lady mother seduced Father. I don’t think she was a temptress either. I was angry when I said that and I’m sorry.”

Joanna grabs his hand. “And I don’t think my mother replaced yours.” Some truths are too impolite to admit when she is not angry.

“No?” He looks away, but he leaves his hand where it is. “He didn’t love her.”

“Most marriages aren’t love matches,” she tries to reassure him.

“Sometimes… Sometimes I feel guilty.” Aegon motions at them, leeching all the warmth from her chest until he says, “Had I been married before I met you, I don’t think I would have been able to stay away.” He gulps. “Do you think…?”

“Do I think what?” she presses, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. This must be hard for you.”

Aegon gives her a smile that looks painful. “Do you think she’d be mad at me, my mother? For this?”

Joanna feels deeply uncomfortable. She cannot help but picture Elia Martell as Lady Stark, only with darker hair and skin. “I think she’d want you to be happy,” she says, because it is what Aegon wants to hear.

“I’m happy.” Aegon squeezes her hand. “You make me happy.”

“Aegon, I make you scream with frustration.” Joanna snorts. “Don’t deny it.”

He flashes her a smile. “It adds to your charm.”

* * *

They emerge from her pavilion for the morning meal. Aegon insists on walking her to the captain-general’s tent arm in arm.

“Aegon, this is too much,” she says, tugging her hand away as they walk. “It’s not proper.”

“I don’t care about proper.”

“But I do!” she retorts, and she is surprised that he lets the matter lie, dropping his hand to rest by his side. She regrets saying anything, but she honestly did not think he would listen to her.

The first thing she sees when she steps inside the tent is Illyrio, grease running down his bearded chin. The sight sours her stomach. “Magister.” _Of course the man has to arrive just after I do. The gods have a nasty way of making us all miserable._ Illyrio was not in the camp yesterday night.

“My dear girl,” he says, falsely jovial as ever. “Oh, Your Grace.” He beams when he sees Aegon behind her. “Please sit, sit, I’m so glad to see you again. I’ve brought you some candied ginger… and something else, yes, but that’s your _wedding_ gift!” He smiles at Daenerys, who sits at the head of the table.

“Joanna,” Daenerys says brightly. She pats the table directly to her right. “Come break your fast.” Joanna looks between her and Aegon, who draws himself to his full height.

“My sweet aunt,” he says, flashing a smile full of teeth, “my sister has never been able to abide the heat.” _I handled it yesterday night quite well,_ Joanna thinks ruefully, as Aegon continues, “It’d be best if she sat far from the braziers.” He sits across from Daenerys, placing his hand on his left.

Daenerys deigns him with a glare. “My dearest nephew, I’m afraid it’s been far too long since you’ve spent a credible amount of time with Joanna. She learned to embrace the fire in her blood in Meereen. With me.”

Aegon looks murderous at the implication in Daenerys’ words, but he turns to Joanna. He obviously wants her to choose him over Daenerys, but the fact that sitting where he wants her to would place her in between him and Quentyn leaves her little choice. Aegon’s face is stony when Joanna steps up to Daenerys and sits.

“Oh, Jo,” Daenerys sighs happily.

“Jo?” Aegon makes a strangled sound. _“Jo?”_

Joanna stares at Daenerys. She knows Aegon, so she imagines he must be offended that someone else is calling her Jo—a nickname he seems to think only _he_ is entitled to—but Daenerys has never called Joanna, Jo. Only Aegon does that. In that moment, Daenerys leers at her.

_She heard us last night,_ Joanna thinks, flushing red. _And if she did, how many others must have heard as well?_

Joanna plops down on her stool, staring firmly at her plate, but she feels eyes on her and wonders if a pair of them belongs to Quentyn.

* * *

In the end, all of Joanna’s talk of alliances, numbers and marriage mean little.

It is plain for everyone to see that Aegon and Daenerys do not get along. Joanna considers _hate_ to be too strong a word, but Jon tells her that she only thinks so because the two of them make an effort to control themselves when Joanna is around. They bicker and slap each other with cruel jabs every time they step into the same tent, but there is one—and only _one_ —issue in which they are united.

“I’ll never have a child of my own womb, but I can have a child of my blood. I don’t believe you’re truly who you say you are, but if you marry my niece and make an heir with her, it’ll be enough for me,” Daenerys says, looking miserable.

Rather than insisting that he is who he says he is, Aegon looks at Joanna, a smug smile on his face.

“If that’s the case,” Illyrio starts, and Joanna expects him to object, but he shocks her by saying, “then who are we to protest such a match? Princess Joanna, after all, has the blood of Old Valyria.”

Joanna could not have been more surprised if Lady Stark walked up to her and kissed her on the mouth.

_I’m missing something,_ Joanna realizes, _but what?_

She thinks on it that night. Next to her, Aegon lays still. She can feel his breathing on her neck, almost painfully intimate. He is curled around her, as if he is afraid she will leave. Joanna runs her fingers through his hair. They have the same thick, smooth, straight hair, and that bothers her, but when he burrows closer to her, she goes and wraps her arms around his back.

* * *

Ghost makes not a sound as he pads along besides her.

“Is he inside?” Joanna asks the guard posted outside the red and gold pavilion.

“Yes, Your Grace. Do I—?”

“There’s no need to announce me.” Joanna enters, leaving the guard outside. She grimaces at the rank smell of ale. “You look worse for wear.”

“Ah, Your Grace,” Tyrion Lannister says from where he sits. “Forgive me, had I known you were coming, I would have—”

“Not changed a thing. You’ve barely left this place in days.” She draws closer to him, then runs her finger down the spine of one of the old tomes littering his desk. “Why are you brooding, Lannister?” Tyrion has a myriad valid reasons to sulk, but they are all old, and so she does not understand why he is sulking _now._ He was perfectly fine a moon ago, when Joanna warged Ghost. All her sleuthing around the camp has turned up nothing as to why the sudden change.

“Connington has given me more work than you can imagine,” Tyrion grunts out. “I don’t have time to leave this tent anymore, if that’s what you mean.”

_“Tyroshi Politics in the Age of the Sisters, The Most Enlightened Volantene, Chronicles of the Slave Trade: A Treaty on Post-Doom Finance,”_ Joanna lists off, reading titles off covers. “Do you truly expect me to believe Jon cares about any of this?” She sniffs. “Why are you really here?”

“Why do you care?” Tyrion asks sourly.

“You’re of more use to us happy than miserable, Tyrion. In your own way, you helped me in Winterfell, and Aegon speaks highly of you. If there’s anything I can do…”

“Oh, His Grace speaks highly of me?”

Joanna narrows her eyes at him. “Are you upset with Aegon?”

Tyrion splutters. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Joanna decides. She tilts her head, trying to come up with a reason why.

“I don’t remember you being half this clever.”

Joanna pins him with a glare. “You would if you weren’t drunk.” _And gods, I wish I had some wine for this._ She pushes away the thought. “I’ll speak to Aegon for you,” she offers. “I doubt he realizes you’re angry with him.”

“There’s no need,” Tyrion says bitterly. “Surely, you’re busy. As is the King.”

She blinks. “Busy? I guess he has been spending a lot of time with those lordlings of his.” Tyrion grits his teeth at her words. _He’s feeling abandoned, then?_ That is surprising, but then Joanna, better than anyone else, knows Aegon can break through to the most thick-skinned of loners. “And there’s Viserion as well. Have you seen the dragons yet?” she says shrewdly, an idea forming in her head.

“Everyone’s seen the dragons.” Tyrion reaches out for a bottle. Joanna picks it up before his small hand closes around it. Tyrion looks up at her with angry eyes, but he does not move a finger.

She gets the impression that he expects her to make fun of him now that she is a princess, but Joanna, even though she is mad at him, is not ungrateful. _He helped me when no one else did. He was kind to me when he didn’t have to be._ “But have you _seen_ them? Up close?” He cannot hide the greed in his eyes, and Joanna turns around to hide her smile. _I have you now, Lannister._

“Come with me, Tyrion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise regular updates, but since I left you with a cliffhanger of sorts... here you have next chapter. Special thank you to everyone who commented while I got lost (or anyone who commented at all, really, you guys make my day) and my beta, NarcissisticWriter.
> 
> So... thoughts?


	11. xi. bonds

Rhaegal coils his tail around Joanna’s waist. “No,” she says in High Valyrian. “None of that.” He lets go with a petulant growl. She turns around. “Now, you can… You’re not listening to me.”

Tyrion stares ahead. Not too far from them, Viserion and Drogon screech at each other. Drogon launches into the air with an ear-splitting shriek. Not to be outdone, Viserion spits out a jet of fire at his black brother, singeing him. Drogon tackles the white dragon to the ground. “Is… is that…?”

“Normal?” she says testily. _It is now._ “Yes. You get used to it.” She curses the fact that Daenerys and Aegon refuse to get along. The dragons should not have to pay the price, and yet they are. “Rhaegal is the only one that behaves anymore.” Ghost comes sniffing her way at that moment, and Rhaegal, as if to prove her wrong, jerks up his head and snaps his jaws at the direwolf. “Rhaegal,” she warns. Undaunted, the dragon slides in behind her, winding his neck around her form and nudging her arm. That means he wants her to pet him, but Joanna is otherwise occupied with her _other_ companion. “Ghost,” Joanna says when she sees him snarl. “You’re older, boy. You will show some restraint,” she commands. Ghost plops himself on the grass in front of her, then gives her a look that she takes to mean _no._

Thankfully, Tyrion is too absorbed with the aerial display ahead of them to pay attention to Ghost and Rhaegal. “They’re going after the elephants,” Tyrion says, deceptively calm.

Joanna waves away his concern. “They do that sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

Distracted, Joanna says, “As long as they don’t actually eat—Ghost!” She takes a step back, yanking Rhaegal’s wing out of the way of the wolf’s teeth. “That’s _not_ nice,” she hisses at Ghost, who looks pleased with himself. She whirls on Rhaegal as soon as she feels him twitch, and makes the switch to Valyrian. “And you, _behave._ You started it.” Rhaegal, at the very least, looks chastened. _Now if only Ghost would follow suit._ However, he does not appear about to cause more trouble, and Joanna knows how to pick her battles. She clears her throat. “As I was saying, if you want to pet Rhaegal, he’ll let you.”

Drogon and Viserion are no longer going after the elephants—which means that Aegon and Daenerys rushed out in time to stop what Harry Strickland would no doubt term an outrage. Joanna dreads returning to camp, for once she does, Daenerys and Aegon will each subject her to their side of the story. Poor Viserion, Joanna is sure, will have a torn something or another that Aegon will throw an unholy fit over, and Daenerys will scream the camp awake in a fury over Drogon’s burns. Such is the way of things. Joanna just hopes she will be spared Harry’s moaning about his terrified elephants.

With nothing else to entertain him, Tyrion finally turns his attention back to her. “Touch him? I can do that?” There is a childish sort of wonder in Tyrion’s eyes that melts away most of Joanna’s annoyance with him.

“Just his flanks,” she confirms. “You said you used to want a dragon as a child, so I thought…”

But Tyrion is no longer listening to her. He approaches Rhaegal with halting steps, his hand outstretched. “Is he…? Will he…? Can I really…?” He does not take his eyes off Rhaegal.

Joanna strokes her fingers over Rhaegal’s neck, where his scales grow harder as she sweeps her hand down. She gives Tyrion a nod even though he will not see it. “You have permission.” Rhaegal shifts when Tyrion places a hand on one of his legs. “Easy, sweetling. He’s a friend of mine,” she whispers in the tongue of dragons. And that much is true.

Joanna remembers King Robert’s welcoming feast with bitter clarity. Gallant Jaime Lannister scandalized the whole hall when he drew her into a dance, his purpose being to warn her to _please_ keep herself out of the King’s way; she still is not sure what he wanted in truth, but she listened and fled the hall, only to find Tyrion, the far less handsome Lannister brother—drunk, leaping off ledges and curious about Ghost, only a pup back then. He had been lacking, but so had she, and thus a dwarf and a bastard became friends.

She thinks about that as light flees the sky. _Who ever would have imagined I’d grow close to a spider and a dwarf?_ Varys and Tyrion are two strange, cryptic men no lady had any business speaking to, but such is the way of things. As a child, Joanna’s life was filled with laughter, but now, despite the fact that Lady Stark’s scowling specter is missing, everyone she cares for is broken in some way: Daenerys is barren and heartbroken over it; Jon still mourns her father, even after all these years; Tyrion is angrier and more bitter than he was in Winterfell; Arya is wed to a boy she no doubt resents and far away, where Joanna cannot protect her.

Then there is Aegon, ever smiling, ever loving. To Joanna, he is the blazing sun, a Martell in truth. She knows, though, that there are two sides of him. There is the boy she met in Pentos, shy and tentative, who tried to bribe her with a cat and wooed her with exotic flowers. The other side of that coin is the man she came face to face with in her pavilion upon her arrival at Volon Therys, the man who wants revenge and whose dragon ate a dying, burning man like Joanna might eat a grape.

She shudders at the thought, and breaks away from her musing when Tyrion speaks.

“I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I’d imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister.” Joanna stiffens, making Rhaegal growl low in his throat. She is too shocked to soothe him. Tyrion laughs at her. “Don’t look at me that way, Joanna. I know your secret. You’ve dreamed the same kind of dreams.”

“I haven’t,” she rasps out. Her heart is racing. She did not expect this from Tyrion.

“You haven’t? Not once?” Tyrion smiles darkly.

Joanna imagines Lady Stark in place of the khal Daenerys burned moons ago. Back in Winterfell, Joanna killed Lady Stark a million times in a thousand different ways, but it is true that most often, she sat next to the fireplace in her rooms and thought of her death by fire. In her mind, Lady Stark always burned quickly, begging forgiveness but for a moment before she was ashes, leaving no scent behind. Joanna knows now that the way she envisioned her death happening as a child is not the way it would go. She would scream, but she would be in too much pain to beg, like Rickard Stark was in too much pain to beg Aerys Targaryen. The one doing the begging was her uncle Brandon, and even his pleas were strangled out of him by the noose. _I was a child when I thought those things. I’m not a monster._

“No doubt the Starks were terribly good to you. No doubt Lady Stark treated you as if you were one of her own. And Sansa, my little wife, she must have had good reasons for hating you the way she does…”

“Sansa doesn’t hate me, Tyrion,” Joanna snaps, and of that she is certain. There is no love lost between Joanna and Sansa, but Sansa never thought Joanna truly important enough to hate, even after the death of Lady. Joanna, for her part, feels a duty to her cousin for Lord Stark’s sake. _There’s no love, but there’s no hate._

Tyrion narrows his eyes at her. “No? She might, when you return to King’s Landing a queen. That girl suffered enough after Lord Stark died. She was the only Stark left in King’s Landing.”

Joanna winces, guilt flooding her. “I should have gotten her away,” she confesses. “Her and Father too. I hid in the tunnels underneath the Red Keep after Cersei took the city. I used to sneak up to the cellars and think about rescuing him. I should have done it. If only I…” She shakes her head. _I failed him._ “I never got past the dragon skulls,” she says helplessly. Their hollowed eyes had followed her every time she tried, warning her away. “I could have saved him, but instead I let Cersei have her way. I let her behead him.” In her anguish, she says something she has never said out loud, “It was _my_ fault.” Ghost brushes against her leg. She runs her hand through his soft fur. Behind her, Rhaegal is warm and steady.

“You would have gotten caught,” Tyrion tells her gently. “It wasn’t you who swung the sword, and it wasn’t you who ordered it swung.” Tyrion frowns. “You can’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control. In fact, Cersei wasn’t—”

Joanna looks away from Tyrion. “You said you dreamed of burning Cersei, Tyrion. I dream of having her head, of dragging her to the Sept of Baelor and watching her blood spill.” Joanna has seen and ordered beheadings before. She knows what it will be like when she finally has Cersei within reach. _She will pay for Father; it is just that she dies the same way he did._

Tyrion does not say anything for a long time. They sit in silence, surrounded by Rhaegal’s wings. The dragon has fallen asleep, but Ghost remains alert, gazing at her with eyes red as blood. By the time Tyrion next speaks, Joanna can see the stars dusting the sky.

“I believe you when you say your cousin doesn’t hate you,” Tyrion says. Joanna glances at him, surprised at the sudden remark. _Of all the things to bring up once again,_ she thinks with a touch of dread. “I believe she doesn’t hate you now, but I want you to consider what she will feel when she sees you wed to the King, with an army at your back and a dragon besides.”

“Why is this so important to you?” she says. He sounds like he cares, but Joanna does not want to think about Tyrion’s words. _Sansa will be reasonable._

Tyrion gives her a pained smile. “I have a fondness for you, Joanna. You’re not the girl you used to be, but neither is your sister. She was beaten in court, and every time Robb Stark won a battle, it got worse. Things got better when Jaime escaped but—”

“Your brother escaped _where?”_ she asks sharply. She has not heard about this before.

He blinks at her. “Your King in the North,” Tyrion says, and, before Joanna can correct him about _who_ her king is, continues, “captured him. I arranged for a group of misfits to hide among Lannister guards to free him, and he returned with them to King’s Landing.

Joanna winces. To lose as important a hostage as Jaime Lannister must have been quite the blow to Robb’s campaign. “Why would Robb allow Lannister men near his camp at all?”

“They accompanied a peace envoy. I’m surprised it worked so well.” Tyrion looks at her suspiciously. “He asked about you when he came back. How come?”

Once, that would have made her blush. Handsome Jaime Lannister asking after her, what a dream to a lowly bastard girl. “I don’t know.” She stands up, suddenly impatient to end this conversation. Handsome or not, Jaime Lannister is neither half so pleasant nor comely as Aegon, and she wants to see him. “Walk me back.”

They head for Aegon’s pavilion when they enter the Golden Company’s camp.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan greets her. “My lord.”

Joanna nods at the knight as a steward rushes inside the tent to inform Aegon of her arrival.

“I’ll be sure to let Aegon know you miss him, my lord,” Joanna says.

Tyrion scowls at her, drawing a smile from her. She laughs when Ser Barristan motions for a random sellsword to act as Tyrion’s temporary guard. _Oh, Jon,_ she thinks, shaking her head. “Goodnight.”

“Do rest, Your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was just one entire scene, but I hope you all liked it. Thanks to everyone who's still reading this story despite the hiatus, so please comment and let me know what you think! It really encourages me to write.
> 
> And special thank you to my beta, NarcissisticWriter. She doesn't check skype often but I hope she sees this?? Lost Girl would have been very different without her. :)


	12. xii. new beginnings

Once, Joanna did not think she would ever marry, and so weddings were never something she dreamed about as a girl. Later, she became so absorbed with the search of a suitable husband that she never spared a thought to the actual ceremony. Even her desperate, bittersweet dreams of marrying Aegon were vague and simple. Regardless, Jon saddles Joanna with the preparations; Joanna, in turn, shifts all the work to Septa Jenelle, who takes to the task with surprising furor. Not to be outdone, meanwhile, Septa Lemore decides to teach Daenerys how to embroider. Daenerys goes along it, but Joanna suspects the septa did most of the work on Joanna’s splendid bride cloak anyway.

Joanna spends most of her time either going through Myseria’s missives or pouring over scrolls filled with Tyrion Lannister’s barely legible handwriting, reading up on dragons and the bits and pieces known about ancient Valyrian sorcery.

“Your Grace,” a guard says, entering her tent, “the King is here to see you.”

“Of course,” Joanna says, distracted, squinting at a smeared word. _Rill, rilcl, rilal, rilnal, rilnal… Oh, that’s an u. Ritual. Doesn’t even have the courtesy of crossing his ts._

“What,” Aegon says suddenly from behind her, whispering into her ear, “could possibly be more interesting than me? Won’t you say hello?” This is not surprising in the least. Joanna has grown used to Aegon’s ludicrous speed by now.

Joanna sends him a dirty look when he tries to snatch the parchment from her hands. “You tear this apart, you’ll transcribe this yourself.” She rolls it up.

“An empty threat,” Aegon decides, straightening. “Don’t you agree, Quent?”

Joanna prays to the old gods for strength, then turns around in her chair. Quentyn looks plainly uncomfortable as he nods, and she is struck by the particular absurdity of the situation they have found themselves in. She has held a conversation with Aegon and Quentyn at the same time before, but this is different. This is her pavilion, where Aegon and Joanna have been together, and even though Joanna kissed Quentyn in _his_ tent… it does not seem to matter; something about seeing them both together in this setting puts her ill at ease.

“I’m busy,” Joanna says, hoping they will leave. “And you knew I was busy, Aegon. This is important.” She shakes the parchment for emphasis.

Aegon blinks at her. “You’re unusually grumpy.”

_It’s called guilt._ Joanna shakes her head. _What’s one kiss anyway? Nothing._ Joanna knows it is not about the kiss, though. It is about _why_ the kiss happened. A part of her wants to tell Aegon about it, but Joanna is well aware of how much this can all hurt Aegon. The two of them have just reconciled, after all, and what they have rescued from the fire is yet fragile. “It’s Tyrion’s fault. I’ve been reading the same passage for half an hour. His handwriting isn’t the best.”

“Oh.” Aegon smiles, winding an arm around Quentyn’s shoulder. “You could help her with that,” he says to his cousin.

“Me?” Quentyn says nervously.

“If you can figure out Lysono’s handwriting, then I have no doubt—”

“Oh,” Quentyn echoes. He shrugs one shoulder. It looks odd, considering Aegon is half draped over Quentyn. Joanna looks at them both, feeling guilty _. If I hadn’t done what I did, they’d be closer._ They get along, Joanna knows, and they might be becoming friends, but she can tell Quentyn feels just as guilty over the kiss as Joanna herself.

Which is stupid. The blame is Joanna’s. “Here,” Joanna says, making up her mind to interfere. She should have spoken to Quentyn long ago; it is high time she does so. “Sit down, please. I do need help.” When Quentyn makes no move to take her offer, she looks expectantly at Aegon. At her prompting, he takes a seat. Quentyn follows him.

Aegon makes an effort to pay attention at first, but arcane magic, sorcery, dragon breeding, dead religions and lost arts are not to his taste; Joanna knows he far prefers concrete history and, if anything, his songs. “I’m going to look for Lucas,” he says, speaking of Lord Sunglass. He brushes his lips against Joanna’s and stands up. “I’ll send Ser Barristan in.”

“You’ll return?”

Aegon smiles wickedly. “In a few hours. Hopefully by then I’ll be more interesting than a piece of parchment.”

Joanna watches him go, and turns back to Quentyn the moment he steps outside. “I want you to know that what happened wasn’t your doing,” she says urgently.

Quentyn blinks owlishly at her. “But I was courting—”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that. You didn’t know Aegon was alive and you didn’t know he wanted to wed me. There’s no need for you to feel responsible.” She grabs his hand, the one that is not grasping on to Tyrion’s scroll. It spams in her grasp, but he does not pull away. “I have something to ask of you. I know I have no right—”

Quentyn tenses, coiling up like a snake. Joanna almost smiles. It appears that Quentyn Martell, like Joanna herself, _is_ made of sterner stuff than he looks, for he knows what she wants from him before she has said the words. “I don’t think…”

Joanna squeezes Quentyn’s hand. “I understand, but I must ask anyway. Keep what happened between us to yourself. I’ll tell Aegon… soon.” _When I’m ready,_ Joanna thinks. That may not be for some time. Joanna is just thankful that Quentyn has kept the event in his tent to himself. She did not have a reason to talk to Quentyn before reconciling with Aegon, and afterwards, Joanna found it difficult to corner Quentyn. Aegon is _always_ with one of them.

Quentyn shakes his head. “I can’t do that. I can’t lie to him anymore. It’s not right.”

“There’s no need for you to feel guilty, Quentyn. As I said, you didn’t know,” Joanna presses. She does not know how much time she has before Ser Barristan comes. Already, it is irregular for a princess to remain alone in her pavilion with a man. Ghost is not even here. She may not get this chance again, and the time she has is being burnt away right in front of her eyes. “I’m asking for your help. I’m asking you to trust me.” Quentyn frowns at her, opening his mouth to protest, but she can already hear the rattling of armor. “All I ask, Quentyn, is that you give me time, enough time to tell him.”

Quentyn looks away, and Joanna grows desperate. _He’ll tell. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow but..._ All she knows is that she cannot let that happen. The truth must come from Joanna, no one else. “Please,” she begs before self-preservation stops her. “I don’t want to hurt him. I love Aegon. Just give me this.”

At that moment, Ser Barristan parts the flap of Joanna’s tent. Shaking, Joanna lets go of Quentyn’s hand, but she stares at him intently until he looks up and gives her the subtlest of nods.

And Joanna can breathe again.

* * *

It baffles her why Daenerys can accept that Joanna is her niece, but not Aegon her nephew.

“Elia Martell died protecting her son’s body. Am I supposed to believe that she died with another woman’s son in her arms while her daughter was stabbed to death underneath my brother’s bed?” Daenerys shakes her head, a scowl marring her breathtaking face. “But you, on the other hand… I’ll believe that the brother of a woman who fought a war partly to save his sister took in her child as his own, treason or no.” She frowns. “That’s what brothers should do. They should love and care for their sisters.”

Joanna resists the urge to hug Daenerys close. The other girl often lapses into long, sullen silences—it is a family failing, for even Aegon succumbs occasionally—when something triggers one unpleasant memory or another. Whenever Joanna is around for them, she rushes to comfort Daenerys, but that inevitably leads to tears, and Joanna is minutes away from being wed.

_Not the time for tears._

Daenerys seems to think so as well, for she straightens, smoothing down her gown, red like blood. She gives Joanna a dazzling smile that is obviously forced, her eyes too bright. “But today, whether Aegon is our blood or not, today he’ll make you a queen. This is what you want?”

“More than anything,” Joanna admits. She is dressed in red silk and snowy white lace to match Ghost, even now pawing at her side. Daenerys leads her down the aisle to where Aegon stands tall and proud in the blazing sun, Blackfyre by his side, a septon in billowing white robes in front of him. On either side of them, lords and ladies from the Free Cities, captains of the Golden Company and Targaryen loyalists in exile look on as Aegon places the Targaryen bride cloak over Joanna’s shoulders and kisses her.

It is sweet and slow, deep, and all Joanna can think about is the last time they kissed in Pentos, when she thought she would burn up from the inside out with the way his hands caressed her body.

* * *

“How does married life feel?” Daenerys asks her the next day at dawn. From outside Aegon’s tent— _their_ tent since last night—come the sounds of men moving in a hurry, of cursing, _clinging_ and horses braying as the men of the Golden Company prepare themselves to travel to Volon Therys, where ships will set sail towards Griffin’s Roost. Daenerys looks oddly wistful where she sits, with the braziers’ light playing over the delicate features of her face.

_Sore,_ Joanna thinks with a blush. She and Aegon have been together every night since her return, but they were both enthusiastic the night before. “You’ve been married, Daenerys. You know.”

“Not all women look forward to their wedding night quite as much as you, _Jo,”_ Daenerys mocks.

“Don’t call me Jo, Dany,” Joanna pleads. It is not that she does not like it; it is the fact that Daenerys only uses the name when she is commenting on Joanna’s intimacy. _Aegon needs to be less loud. I can’t survive this embarrassment much longer._

“So bashful, Jo.”

“I’m married,” Joanna protests with more confidence than she feels. “There’s no reason I should be ashamed.”

“There really isn’t,” Daenerys says, a sad smile playing on her lips for a second before she wrinkles her nose. “You have appalling taste, but as long as you’re happy. A Blackfyre, though.” She shudders.

“Dany!” She pushes her feet into a pair of boots and goes about lacing them up as she speaks. “Have you seen him next to Quentyn? They look related. He’s who he says he is.”

Daenerys mutters something under her breath _,_ but Aegon arrives at that moment, preventing Joanna from following up on it.

“Oh, _you,”_ Aegon says, eyeing Daenerys with distaste.

“Aegon,” Joanna warns.

Aegon holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I come bearing news,” he defends. “The khalasar is getting impatient and the slaves are weary.”

Daenerys purses her lips. “They’re no longer slaves.”

“The former slaves are weary, then.” Aegon rolls his eyes. “They’ve been waiting for you to set off, all aboard my ships.”

“They’re _not_ your ships,” Daenerys hisses.

“Then neither are they yours! Aurane and Lord Celtigar didn’t steal the Lannisters’ fleet so you could take it to Braavos. Of what use will they be there?”

He frowns. “Unless you’d like to send them off to Braavos on their own?” he asks hopefully. “We could reach an agreement with the Volantenes…”

Joanna sighs, sensing an argument. While their army will head west on Volantene ships, they agreed days prior that their newly-acquired royal fleet would take Daenerys north to deliver the former slaves to a safe place.

“Because you think they’d honor such an agreement?” She snorts. “Taking them to Braavos is the right thing to do,” Daenerys insists. “And I imagine the Iron Bank will be far more pleased with us after this. Didn’t you say Lord Stark found the Usurper plunged the crown’s coffers into debt?” She looks at Joanna, who nods. Daenerys gives Aegon a triumphant smile. “It costs us little, and it’ll make the Braavosi more amenable to treat with us.”

“Too many former slaves in one place is dangerous.” Joanna puts her hand on Aegon’s shoulder. He turns towards her. “We don’t need the fleet to take us to the Stormlands, Aegon, and Daenerys won’t let anything happen to it while she has it,” Joanna reassures. “She and Drogon are more than capable of fending off anyone who attacks them.”

Aegon looks at Joanna with a thoughtful look on his face. “No one would dare touch them with the threat of dragonfire hanging over their heads,” he agrees, his voice quiet, then wraps his arms around her waist. “Remember the play? Daemon and Laena?”

Joanna cannot help the smile from sneaking into her face. “You’re sweet.”

Aegon smirks, then strokes his hands down her sides. “I think I like you better in breeches,” he says suddenly.

“You do?” Joanna has no idea why.

“No lacings, no girdle, no absurdly tight shift,” he lists off, giving her a look that makes her mouth go dry. “Easier access.”

_“Crude,”_ Daenerys says, making Joanna jerk up to look at her, already leaving. She disappears behind the tent’s flap, its blood red fabric hiding her from view.

“She’s never going to like you if you keep being so rude to her,” she chides, but there is no heat behind her words. Her hands move to unbutton Aegon’s jerkin.

“Daenerys started it.” Aegon leans in to brush their lips together. “Had you been there when we met, I’m confident you’d agree with me. Not that you had the _courtesy_ of—”

Joanna breathes out a laugh. “Leave me out of it.” She pushes the jerkin off his shoulders, then pulls his tunic from his breeches.

Aegon draws her closer, peppering kisses along the column of her neck. “You always take her side, Joanna.”

She smiles. “Funny you should say that. Dany thinks I always take _your_ side.”

“As you should!” Aegon raises his head to give her a sour look. “She’s stubborn and greedy. No,” Aegon says, nodding to himself. “Selfish. Selfish fits her much better. Had she been born a man, she would have been the type to keep a mistress in every corner of his kingdom. Aegon the Unworthy material, if I’ve ever seen it.”

“Aegon.”

“In fact, had she been born a man, I don’t doubt she would have fed me to her dragons and took you for a wife,” Aegon says, well and truly invested in his rant by now. Joanna sighs. She has heard a variant of this same tirade one too many times. Unimpressed, she starts to divest him of his clothes. “Oh, she would have said I’m not her nephew, that I’m a Blackfyre, but I’m _not!”_ Joanna makes a sound of agreement, dragging his tunic over his head. She runs her fingers over the planes of his chest, leaning in to run the tip of her nose against his collarbone. Aegon shivers, but continues, unperturbed, “She thinks I look like a Martell only because of Mariah Martell. Do you know how many generations ago that was? Six. Six genera—”

“Boots,” she says.

Aegon obliges her, kicking them off by stepping on one then the other, amusingly distracted. “Six generations. Six! So I told her the Blackfyres don’t have Mariah Martell as their ancestor, and then she came up with this ridiculous theory about Aerion Brightflame’s son. It’s ludicrous, Joanna! Mariah Martell.” He scoffs. “The Martells probably don’t look anything like Mariah Martell anymore. When we take King’s Landing, I’ll have a tapestry of Daeron and Mariah brought to me so that I can show her I—”

“We’re going to Storm’s End first,” Joanna reminds him. She unlaces his breeches.

“Yes, of course, but after—”

“After this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the feedback from last chapter, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you guys prefer to have some humor to break up all the gloom in the story, so I hope you're all pleased with this chapter. Although this briefly brought Quentyn back to the forefront, I hope there was enough humor to make up for it. Plus, of course, Aegon and Joanna are finally married, so you guys must be _really_ happy right now.
> 
> Lost Girl just passed one thousand kudos, so while I didn't plan for the wedding to come alongside that landmark, it makes me really happy that I get to say thank you with their wedding. I want to first say thank you to my beta NarcissisticWriter, who originally signed up to beta a paltry six chapters before this story... exploded? You totally didn't have to do that, Tahnee, so thank you for sticking with me. I also want to thank everyone who has commented, bookmarked (yes, even if it's private), or left kudos on this story. When I first started posting Lost Girl, I really didn't think people would like it and it was just something I sat down to write because I had writer's block, but since then this story has helped me become a better writer and also helped me through some difficult times in my life.
> 
> I can say than about J/A itself. I know this is a very small ship and it's something I'm sure most people in the asoiaf fandom would tilt their heads at, but somehow this ship has consumed me and I'm amazed and touched that there's other people who feel the same. Some of you have told me that Lost Girl got you into it and that means a lot to me. I hope that in the future more people start writing J/A; a friend has told me that the people who ship it are few but absolutely obsessed with it, and I hope she's right. I can't personally thank everyone who has kept me going, kept me writing, and I also don't know if they'd be okay with being mentioned in this AN, but I think you all know who you are. I remember your comments and I take them into account when I'm writing.
> 
> Lastly, I want to announce that Lost Girl will have a sequel, Sweet Liar. For those who don't know, I'm currently very far ahead in writing Lost Girl and getting close to writing the climax. This means I'm running into logistical problems, but I think I may have had a breakthrough recently. I have no intention of abandoning Lost Girl so please don't worry, but I think it's only right that I inform people that the end isn't coming anytime soon. As I've said before, I'm going through a difficult time right now, so my writing speed has drastically decreased. I don't feel comfortable posting unless I'm writing, as I feel like the buffer chapters I've accumulated give me space to maneuver in case I run into logistical problems like I am right at present.
> 
> Again, thank you to all of you, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	13. xiii. myseria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several things I wish to say.
> 
> Number one is that I’m sorry for not updating. Number two is that I want it to be clear that I didn’t stop updating because I’m a mean, awful witch that did this out of malice or because I don’t care. The fact is that life got in the way and I didn’t mean to leave people hanging, but it happened anyway. I don’t have to give you an explanation, but I’ll do so because I want you to understand, and because not saying anything feels like a lie of omission.
> 
> I got in an accident the day after my last update. It’s been three months, and I’m well on my way to recovering, but that doesn’t erase the fact that I’m still not physically or psychologically stable. I very easily could be dead right now. Do you ever find long-abandoned stories with writers who don’t even reply to comments and think, “Did this person change their email or are they dead?” Because I do, and that could have been Lost Girl, and no one would have known.
> 
> Additionally, I’m swamped at work, to the point that my phone has over fifty marketing-related tabs open right this second and I haven’t had an “off” day in eight weeks. (And no, I don’t work in marketing, but it’s part of my job.)
> 
> I’m not saying all this to stir up drama, call people out or make anyone feel sorry for me. I’m saying it because I’m not the person I was three months ago and this story is incredibly important to me, but I can’t give you weekly updates anymore. I can’t promise you updates, period, because I’m a picky reader and a pickier writer, and if something isn’t perfect, I won’t post it.
> 
> I feel like this story deserves my best, and that’s what I’m trying to give you guys. If you can’t wait for it, if you feel that isn’t worth it, then I’m genuinely sorry, but I’m giving it my all and there’s nothing more to this.
> 
> There’s a more upbeat AN at the end.
> 
>  
> 
> _LAST TIME ON LOST GIRL:_
> 
> Joanna, having just agreed to marry Aegon, convinces Quentyn to refrain from telling Aegon of their shared kiss on the demon road and the night they almost spent together. Joanna and Aegon wed in front of a crowd of Targaryen loyalists. Daenerys takes the Targaryen fleet, stolen from the Lannisters by Aurane Waters and Lord Celtigar, to deliver the freed slaves to Braavos. Meanwhile, Aegon, Joanna and the bulk of the Targaryen army is about to sail off to take Storm's End.

The morning of the battle, Joanna kicks Aegon’s new squire out of their pavilion and helps him into his armor, a splendid ensemble of pitch black plate with the three-headed dragon rendered in rubies on his breastplate. Joanna runs her fingers over the rightmost head, thinking of the ruby ford and how Robert Baratheon caved in their father’s chest.

_One day he left my lady mother’s tower in Dorne and never came back to her. May the same never happen again._

“You’ll return,” Joanna says firmly. “Ghost will be with you.”

“And will you be with Ghost?” Aegon places his gauntleted hand on the small of her back. The metal is cold, even through her tunic.

“No, he fights better when I keep away.” Joanna gives him a wan smile. “But I’ll be flying overhead with Rhaegal. Ghost will protect you for me.”

“I don’t need protecting.” Aegon scowls.

“So stubborn.” She cups his cheek. Joanna looks at him. _He’s frightened._ “It’s your first battle.” Aegon did not fight at Griffin’s Roost nor at any of the other three castles the company took in the past few days. Joanna rather thinks Jon should be commended for managing to keep him off the battlefield for this long. _At least Archibald Yronwood will be with him,_ Joanna thinks. Quentyn took Gerris Drinkwater—the blasted fool, she wishes Aegon would not like him so—back with him to Dorne, but at least he left another Dornishman behind to remain with Aegon, and she is of the opinion that although crude, Archibald has a good head on his shoulders.

“I’ll smash the Usurper’s brother at Storm’s End. When I do, you’ll see how wrong you were to worry.”

She can think of a million things to say to that, all of them about how Stannis Baratheon is a hardened battle commander of more than a dozen battles and Aegon is only a _boy,_ but this is not the time to break his confidence. It strikes her that he _knows_ about Stannis _,_ that that is why he is afraid.

“I’ll always worry so long as you go off to fight. It doesn’t matter against who—whether that’s Stannis Baratheon or his fool.” Aegon gives a weak laugh, which does not serve to reassure her. “Are you putting on a brave face for my sake? You don’t have to.” She brushes her thumb against his cheekbone.

“I’m not,” Aegon insists.

Joanna pulls him down to brush their lips together.

_That’s sweet,_ Joanna thinks.

* * *

Rhaegal burns the men defending the castle’s walls, giving the sellswords below the time they need to batter through the gates. Once that is done, Joanna has both dragons land on a hill overlooking the castle. The sun grows hotter while she waits, forcing her to unchain herself from her saddle and sit on the grass.

_Brandon the Builder helped raise those walls and today I’m helping bring them down._

Joanna thinks of another Brandon, _her_ little Brandon, so small and frail lying on his featherbed with Lady Stark by his side. When news reached King’s Landing about his recovery, Joanna was overjoyed, but that joy has grown muted in the moons since. _So much has happened since I left Winterfell. Are you alive, Bran, or did you truly die in the wilderness, separated from Rickon? Theon’s to blame. I’d make him pay if I could._

But Robb has already served their father’s ward with Northern justice. Theon’s head, according to Varys’ reports, was the first on a spike when Robb took back Winterfell from the Ironborn. Rickon returned with a wildling woman for a handler moons later, but Bran and the Reeds disappeared and have not been seen since.

She pushes away those thoughts when she sees the burning Baratheon stag replaced by the three-headed-dragon. The courtyard is full when she attempts to land, so she has Rhaegal perch on the wall next to a group of men in golden livery. They pale at having Rhaegal so close to them, but seem happy to escort her down.

“The King?”

“With the Hand, Your Grace. He’s uninjured.”

Joanna nods, breathing out a sigh of relief. The people in the courtyard make way for her. Dressed in black and red, with a crown of rubies on a band of silver, her hair plaited like Visenya of old, it is not difficult to make out who she is. Joanna notes the drawn faces and accusing eyes, stiffening. No one has looked at her with such censure ever since King’s Landing, ever since Cersei Lannister.

Aegon stands next to Jon and Harry Strickland, and as the sellsword said, he is unharmed. Prowling behind him is Ghost, his fur matted with blood… but not his.

Someone has fetched a block.

Harry Strickland steps away to allow her to reach Aegon. Panic sets in when she stands next to him. _Do I kiss him? Do I hug him? Should I show relief or will that make it seem like I have no confidence in him? Will hugging him be seen as childish? He’s my brother; should we pretend our marriage is a distant one?_ But Aegon closes his hand around her neck and pulls her in for a long, drawn-out kiss, and if the people in the courtyard think anything of it, they do not show it.

Joanna’s eyes linger on his breastplate—no rubies missing, thankfully—before she shifts her attention to the scene in front of them. A burly man with a thin face in leathers and a yellow surcoat is brought up ahead of the crowd and thrown upon the tiles.

“Stannis Baratheon, Your Grace,” Lucas Sunglass says. “The Usurper’s brother.” He looks eager. Joanna cannot blame him, not after Stannis’ red priestess burned his brother Guncer alive. Lucas joined up with the Golden Company once he heard of Daenerys’ march west. Aegon latched on to him after the man passed Jon’s scrutiny, and the two became fast friends in Volon Therys.

Aegon nods. Joanna looks at him, confused. _Won’t you say anything?_ When Jon has two men drag Lord Stannis’ head onto the block, it becomes clear that Aegon does not need to say anything; Stannis’ fate has already been decided.

_But it’s wrong._

“Aegon.” She grabs his arm. “Mercy.”

Jon looks at her sharply, but when Aegon holds up a hand, their executioner stops.

“Lord Stannis’ crimes are great, but despite that, he’s not his brother. He’s a seasoned war commander and a great lord, one who for better or for worse, stood against the… Lannisters’ butchery. I ask that you consider offering him a place at the Wall, where men can serve honorably and… right their wrongs.” She stumbles all over her words, nervous and unsure. _Am I doing this right?_

Jon appears furious and Aegon contemplative, but when Stannis Baratheon pins Joanna with his dark blue eyes, she fears her plan will die an early death. “There are no wrongs to right. The throne is mine. The Mad King was mad, and my brother Robert roused the realm because Aerys’ line was unfit to rule.”

_No wrongs to right? Not even kinslaying?_ She dearly wants to spit the words at him, but she feels like someone with as sharp a tongue as Stannis Baratheon would see her hesitate and strike her down where she stands if she dares speak to him. Lord Varys’ Mysaria sent the information of Renly’s strange death across the narrow sea for _someone_ to use it, and under different circumstances Joanna would try, but at stake is not only Joanna’s pride; it is also the throne, and all their lives. It will look horrid if Stannis succeeds in verbally shutting her down. _Better not risk it._ “Your saying so doesn’t make it so, my lord.” Joanna glances at Aegon. “The Baratheons grew proud and corrupt during our absence, but I wonder if a few days in the dungeons would make him see reason?”

“Ned Stark proclaimed me the rightful heir, Lady Snow. You should be kne—”

A distant roar drowns out the rest of Stannis’ words. Joanna looks at Rhaegal’s supple form on top of the castle walls. _It was Viserion._ Joanna tilts her head at Aegon, considering him.

In the silence that follows, Aegon says, “Lord Connington, have Lord Stannis taken to the dungeons. My queen is right. The Wall holds a special place in the hearts of all who have Stark blood such as she, and it’s always in need of good men. Lord Stannis will be given a fortnight to think upon his crimes. Then he’ll decide whether it’ll be the block or the Black for him.” He smiles.

After that, most of men in the courtyard bend the knee. A paltry four are executed and the rest are sent to the Wall. Pale from all the beheading, Joanna leans in closer to Aegon to whisper, “As long as Jon keeps acting bloodthirsty and I keep begging for mercy, you’ll be seen as firm but merciful. This is good.” She can feel herself sweating through her silks, more out of stress than because of the heat—of which there is little; winter is coming. It is a lucky coincidence that things are working out for the best, that Joanna stumbled her way into a good political decision. _Next time I might not be so lucky_.

“It’s not an act,” Aegon replies, barely moving his lips.

Jon looks coldly over at a man being led into the dungeons—like all the others who have chosen the Wall—and Joanna shudders.

* * *

Rain lashes out against the windows and whips against the smooth stone of Storm’s End, but within its single, great tower, Joanna thinks of legends, of Brandon the Builder and the Wall, of the wildlings sacking the North and of Robb, who she hopes is still alive. The hallways of Storm’s End are riddled with intricate glass windows, works of art that make a mockery of the storms that batter the castle. _Brandon the Builder must have been an audacious boy,_ Joanna thinks, a smile on her face as she enters the war room. _Just like Bran._

In her chambers, she finds a richly-dressed figure standing in front of the great, pointed windows that make up most of the far wall of her parlor. Beyond them, thunder booms, but Joanna focuses her attention on the girl, and when she does, her heart slams into her throat.

“Sansa,” she gasps out, certain. _The hair._ It is the hair she recognizes. The girl stands with her back to Joanna, but Joanna would know that particular shade of red anywhere. As a child, she prayed to the gods to have Lady Stark’s pretty auburn hair like Sansa in the hopes that the great lady of Winterfell would hate her just a bit less. Joanna knows the Tully red hair like she knows the color of Aegon’s violet eyes; they are both burned behind her eyelids, one for love, one for grief. Joanna rushes forward. “Sansa, I—”

“Your Grace,” the girl says, and Joanna stops in the middle of the room. The words that reach Joanna’s ears are husky, arousing, like silk on skin.

_Sansa?_ Joanna thinks incredulously. _Surely not._  “Sansa, is that you?”

The girl turns, and Joanna braces to see Lady Stark’s face, but the features she comes face to face with are not the ones she expects. A small button nose, a pointy chin, big brown eyes—all set on a small, triangular face that is as lovely as it is unfamiliar. “Your Grace, my name is Alayne.”

“Alayne,” Joanna tests out.

The girl smiles, her dark red lips twisting up slowly. “You might know me as Mysaria, Your Grace. I was Andrew Estermont’s mistress.”

Joanna eyes the girl carefully. Something about her looks familiar. “Where is Ser Andrew? He wasn’t among Stannis’ men in the courtyard. Is he dead?” She does not mince her words. This girl spied on the man, after all. There should be no emotional attachment on her part.

Alayne gives a throaty, delighted laugh. “But of course… _Your Grace.”_ Joanna narrows her eyes at the way Alayne says the words, her title, with such mirth. From inside her sleeve, she takes out a slim, clear bottle. “The Tears of Lys. Two drops of this and any man is undone.” Alayne has dropped her voice to a whisper, but Joanna can hear her anyway. The thunder has stopped.

“You killed him?” Joanna is shocked. _To kill your own lover yourself?_ Joanna cannot imagine such a thing.

Alayne slides the bottle back into her sleeves. Her dress is Tully teal blue, Joanna notes. She thinks that too strange to be coincidental, but she does not have time to contemplate the why of things before Alayne says, “I kill all my men. They steal nothing else from no other woman but me.”

Joanna’s eyes are wide. She takes a step back when Alayne starts towards her, but then Joanna finds herself frozen in place. “I’ll be in King’s Landing by the time you make your way there, but I wanted… to help you. Here.” Alayne grabs Joanna’s hand with one of her own smooth ones, and pushes the bottle into Joanna’s palm. The girl makes a fist around it with Joanna’s hand. “If you ever need it, Your Grace.”

Once Alayne is gone, Joanna looks down at the small, deadly bottle in her grip.

_I’ll never need it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I’ll try to update soon but I’m done making people promises on this site. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, so let’s just hope for the best.
> 
> If you’d like something to read while you wait for Lost Girl to be updated, I recommend [my womb is filled with blood and tears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16970577/chapters/39886026) by GlitterPoisonedMyBlood, who I’ve dragged so deep into JA hell that she’s writing niche feminist metafic with JA in it. So go read it. (Take note, writing me JA things is a surefire way of getting me to update lol.) She hasn't posted the JA chapter yet but I read it ahead of time and I'm currently not speaking to her for what she did to my ship. :)))))))
> 
> And if you need any inspiration for writing JA, I recommend listening to [Big God](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqerPXPwhHM) by Florence + The Machine, which I think should be the official JA song. (Seriously, you guys, seriously, I feel like Aegon is singing the thing.)
> 
> Anyway, please comment and thank you!
> 
> PS: Who is Alayne? Discuss.


End file.
